- 


NRLF 


HDD 


THE  CO?  OF  COMUS 


by 


Madison  Cawein 


.   I 


GIFT  OF 


THE  CUP  OF  COM  US 


FACT  AND  FANCY 


BY 


MADISON  CAWEIN 

MEMBER  OF  THE  NATIONAL  INSTITUTE 
OF  ARTS  AND  LETTERS 


THE  CAMEO  PRESS 
NEW  YORK 

1915 


Copyright,  1915,  by 
ROSE  DE  VAUX-ROYER 


This  edition  is  limited  to  Five  Hundred  copies  of  which 
this  is  Number       '  ^  (j 


For  permission  to  reprint  most  of  the  poems  in  this  vol 
ume  thanks  are  made  to  the  various  magazines  and  periodi 
cals  in  which  they  first  appeared. 


VAIL-BALLOU    COMPANY 

9INQHANTON  AND  NEW   YOU* 


?S  I IA 

c? 


TO    MY    GOOD    FRIEND 

W.  T.  H.  HOWE 

Friend,  for  the  sake  of  loves  we  hold  in  common, 

The  love  of  books,  of  paintings,  rhyme  and  fiction; 

And  for  the  sake  of  that  divine  affliction, 

The  love  of  art,  passing  the  love  of  woman ;  — 

By  which  all  life's  made  nobler,  superhuman, 

Lifting  the  soul  above,  and,  without  friction 

Of  Time,  that  puts  failure  in  his  prediction, — 

Works  to  some  end  through  hearts  that  dreams  illumine: 

To  you  I  pour  this  Cup  of  Dreams  —  a  striver, 

And  dreamer  too  in  this  sad  world, —  unwitting 

Of  that  you  do,  the  help  that  still  assureth, — 

Lifts  up  the  heart,  struck  down  by  that  dark  driver, 

Despair,  who,  on  Life's  pack-horse  —  effort  —  sitting, 

Rides  down  Ambition  through  whom  Art  endureth. 


328467 


THRENODY  IN  MAY 

(In  memory  of  Madison  Cawein.) 


Again  the  earth,  miraculous  with  May, 
Unfolds    its    vernal    arras.     Yes 
teryear 
We  strolled  together  'neath  the 

greening  trees, 
And  heard  the  robin  tune  its  flute 

note  clear, 
And    watched     above    the    white 

cloud   squadrons   veer, 
And  saw  their  shifting  shadows  drift 

away 
Adown   the    Hudson,    as    ships 

seek  the  seas. 
The    scene    is    still    the    same.     The 

violet 
Unlids   its   virgin   eye;    its   amber 

ore 
The  dandelion  shows,   and  yet,   and 

yet, 
He  comes  no  more,  no  more! 

He  of  the  open  and  the  generous  heart, 
The  soul  that  sensed  all  flowerful 

loveliness, 
The  nature  as  the  nature  of  a 

child ; 
Who   found  some   rapture   in   the 

wind's  caress, 
Beauty  in  humble  weed  and  mint 

and  cress, 

And  sang,  with  his  incomparable  art, 
The  magic  wonder  of  the  wood 

and  wild. 
The   little   people   of   the   reeds   and 

grass 

Murmur   their   blithe,    companion 
able  lore, 
The    rills    renew    their    minstrelsy. 

Alas, 
He  comes  no  more,  no  more! 


And  yet  it  seems  as  though  he  needs 

must  come, 

Albeit  he  has  cast  off  mortality, 
Such   was   his   passion  for   the 

bourgeoning  time, 
Such  to  his  spirit  was  the  ecstasy 
The  hills  and  valleys  chorus  when 

set  free, 
No    music    mute,    no    lyric    instinct 

dumb, 

But  keyed  to  utterance  of  im 
mortal   rhyme. 
Ah,     haply     in     some     other     fairer 

spring 
He  se«s  bright  tides   sweep   over 

slope  and  shore, 

But  here  how  vain  is  all  my  vision- 
ing  I 
He  comes  no  more,  no  morel 

Poet  and  friend,  wherever  you  may 

fare 
En  wrapt    in    dreams,    I    love    to 

think  of  you 
Wandering  amid  the  meads  of 

asphodel, 
Holding   high    converse    with   the 

exalted  few 
Who  sought  and  found  below  the 

elusive  clue 

To  beauty,  and  in  that  diviner  air 
Bowing   in  worship  still  to   its 

sweet  spell. 

Why  sorrow,   then,   though  fate  un 
kindly  lays 
Upon  our  questioning  hearts  this 

burden  sore, 
And  though  through  all  our  length 

of  hastening  days 
He  comes  no  more,  no  more! 

CLINTON  SCOLLABD. 


FOREWORD 

It  is  with  a  sense  of  sadness  and  regret  that  this  book, 
written  by  one  who  universally  has  endeared  himself  to 
lovers  of  nature  through  his  revelation  of  her  mysteries, 
must  be  prefaced  as  containing  the  last  songs  of  this  ex 
quisite  singer  of  the  South. 

When  the  final  word  is  spoken  it  is  fitting  that  it  be  by 
one  of  authority.  William  Dean  Howells,  in  the  pages  of 
The  North  American  Review,  offers  this  tribute: 

"  I  had  read  his  poetry  and  loved  it  from  the  beginning, 
and  in  each  successive  expression  of  it,  I  had  delighted  in 
its  expanding  and  maturing  beauty.  Between  the  earliest 
and  the  latest  thing  there  may  have  been  a  hundred  differ 
ent  things  in  the  swan-like  life  of  a  singer  .  .  .  but  we  take 
the  latest  as  if  it  summed  him  up  in  motive  and  range  and 
tendency.  .  .  .  Not  one  of  his  lovely  landscapes  but 
thrilled  with  a  human  presence  penetrating  to  it  from  his 
most  sensitive  and  subtle  spirit  until  it  was  all  but  painfully 
alive  with  memories,  with  regrets,  with  longings,  with  hopes, 
with  all  that  from  time  to  time  mutably  constitutes  us  men 
and  women,  and  yet  keeps  us  children.  He  has  the  gift,  in 
a  measure,  that  I  do  not  think  surpassed  in  any  poet,  of 
touching  some  commonest  thing  in  nature,  and  making  it 
live,  from  the  manifold  associations  in  which  we  have  our 
being,  and  glow  thereafter  with  an  indistinguishable 
beauty.  .  .  .  No  other  poet  can  outword  this  poet  when  it 
comes  to  choosing  some  epithet  fresh  from  the  earth  and 
air,  and  with  the  morning  sun  and  light  upon  it,  for  an  emo 
tion  or  an  experience  in  which  the  race  renews  its  youth 
from  generation  to  generation.  .  .  .  His  touch  leaves  every 
thing  that  was  dull  to  the  sense  before  glowing  in  the  light 
of  joyful  recognition." 

With  a  tone  of  conviction  Edwin  Markham  says: 


"  No  other  poet  of  the  later  American  choir  offers  so  large 
a  collection  of  verse  as  Mr.  Cawein  does,  and  no  other 
American  minstrel  has  so  unvarying  a  devotion  to  nature. 
And  none  other,  perhaps,  has  so  keen  an  eye,  so  sure  a  word 
for  nature's  magic  of  mood,  her  trick  of  color,  her  change 
of  form.  He  is  not  so  wild  and  far-flying  as  Bliss  Carmen, 
nor  so  large  and  elemental  as  Joaquin  Miller;  but  he  is  often 
as  delicate  and  eerie  as  Aldrich,  and  sometimes  as  warm  and 
rich  as  Keats  in  the  April  affluence  of  '  Endymion.'  ' 

"  Mr.  Cawein's  landscape  is  not  the  sea,  nor  the  desert, 
nor  the  mountain,  but  the  lovely  inland  levels  of  his  Ken 
tucky.  His  work  is  almost  wholly  objective.  A  dash  more 
of  human  import  mixed  into  the  beauty  and  melody  of  his 
poetry  would  rank  him  with  Lowell  and  the  other  great 
lyrists  of  our  elder  choir." 

Some  of  the  new  poems  portray  a  high  moral  passion, 
potent  with  the  belief  of  life  beyond,  where  his  delicacy  of 
vision  penetrates  the  shadow  and  seems  to  have  sighted 
the  shore  that  has  given  his  soul  greeting  "  somewhere  yon 
der  in  a  world  uncharted." 

Clear,  sure,  and  strong  is  the  vocal  loveliness  and  in 
evitable  word  with  which  this  poet  endears  the  little  forms 
of  life  in  the  field  of  Faery.  The  "  Song  of  Songs  "  (1913) 
could  be  characterized  as  prophecy,  by  one  in  whom  seemed 
inherent  the  fatal  instinct  of  the  predestined.  He  sought 
for  "  Song  to  lead  her  way  above  the  crags  of  wrong,"  and 
he  gave 

"  Such  music  as  a  bird 
Gives  of  its  soul  when  dying 
Unconscious  if  it's  heard !  " 

And  so  he  went,  singing,  to  his  "  Islands  of  Infinity." 

ROSE  DE  VAUX-ROYER. 


This  edition  is  called  the  Friendship  Edition,  as  it  car 
ries  in  its  significance  a  testimonial  of  love  and  admiration 
for  the  author,  extended  by  those  who  wish  his  last  collected 
poems  preserved  for  futurity. 

Acknowledgment  is  due  W.  D.  Howells,  The  North 
American  Review,  The  Macmillan  Co.,  Clinton  Scollard  and 
Edwin  Markham  for  their  courtesy. 

6 


BROKEN  MUSIC 

(IN  MEMORIAM) 

There  it  lies  broken,  as  cC  shard, — 

What   breathed  sweet  music  yesterday; 
The  source,  all  mute,  has  passed  away 

With  its  masked  meanings  still  unrnarred. 

But  melody  will  never  cease! 

Above  the  vast  cerulean  sea 

Of  heaven,  created  harmony 
Rings  atnd  re-echoes  its  release! 

So,  this  dumb  instrument  that  lies 

All  powerless, — [with  spirit  flown, 

Beyond  the  veil  of  the  Unknown 
To  chant  its  love-hymned  litanies, — ] 

Though  it  may  thrill  us  here  no  more 
With  cadenced  strain, —  in  other  spheres 
Will  rise  above  the  vanquished  years 
And  breathe  its  music  as  before! 
[Louisville  Times] 
Written  December  7th,  1914. 

Rose  de  Vaux-Royer. 

,  The  spirit  of  Madison  Cawein  passed  at  midnight  from  this  world  of  inti 
mate  beauty  "To  stand  a  handsbreadth  nearer  Heaven  and  what  is  God!" 


MADISON  CAWEIN 

(1865-1914) 

THE  wind  makes  moan,  the  water  runneth  chill; 
I   hear  the  nymphs  go  crying  through  the  brake; 
And  roaming  mournfully  from  hill  to  hill 
The  maenads  all  are  silent  for  his  sake ! 

He  loved  thy  pipe,  O  wreathed  and  piping  Pan! 

So  play'st  thou  sadly,  lone  within  thine  hollow; 
He  was   thy  blood,  if  ever  mortal  man, 

Therefore  thou  weepest  —  even  thou,  Apollo ! 

But  O,  the  grieving  of  the  Little  Things, 

Above  the  pipe  and  lyre,  throughout  the  woods! 

The  beating  of  a  thousand  airy  wings, 
The  cry  of  all  the   fragile  multitudes ! 

The  moth  flits  desolate,  the  tree-toad  calls, 

Telling  the  sorrow  of  the  elf  and  fay; 
The  cricket,  little  harper  of  the  walls, 

Puts  up  his  harp  —  hath  quite  forgot  to  play ! 

j 
And  risen  on  these  winter  paths  anew, 

The  wilding  blossoms  make  a  tender  sound; 
The  purple  weed,  the  morning-glory  blue, 

And  all  the  timid  darlings  of  the  ground ! 

Here,  here  the  pain  is  sharpest !     For  he  walked 
As  one  of  these  —  and  they  knew  naught  of  fear, 

But  told  him  daily  happenings  and  talked 
Their  lovely  secrets  in  his  list'ning  ear ! 

Yet  we  do  bid  them   grieve,  and  tell  their  grief; 

Else  were  they  thankless,  else  were  all  untrue ; 
O  wind  and  stream,  O  bee  and  bird  and  leaf, 

Mourn  for  your  poet,  with  a  long  adieu! 

MARGARET  STEELE  ANDERSON. 
Louisville  Post,  December  12th,  1914. 

8 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  CUP  OF  COMUS 11 

THE   INTRUDER 13 

A   GHOST   OF   YESTERDAY 15 

LORDS  OF  THE  VISIONARY  EYE 16 

THE  CREAKING  DOOR 18 

AT  THE  END  OF  THE  ROAD 20 

THE   TROUBADOUR   OF   TREBIZEND 21 

GHOSTS 23 

THE  LONELY  LAND 24 

THE   WIND    WITCH 27 

OLD    GHOSTS 28 

THE   NAME   ON   THE   TREE 29 

THE  HAUNTED  GARDEN 31 

THE  CLOSED  DOOR 33 

THE  LONG  ROOM 34 

IN  PEARL  AND  GOLD 35 

MOON  FAIRIES ....  37 

HAEC  OLIM  MEMINISSE 40 

THE    MAGIC    PURSE 41 

THE   CHILD  AT  THE   GATE 42 

THE   LOST   DREAM 44 

WITCHCRAFT 45 

TRANSPOSED  SEASONS 46 

THE  OLD  DREAMER 47 

A   LAST   WORD 49 

THE  SHADOW 50 

ON  THE  ROAD  .                                      52 


PAGE 

RECONCILIATION 53 

PORTENTS 55 

THE  IRON  CRAGS 57 

THE  IRON  CROSS 58 

THE   WANDERER 60 

THE  END  OF  SUMMER 62 

THE  LUST  OF  THE  WORLD 63 

CHANT  BEFORE  BATTLE 64 

NEARING  CHRISTMAS 65 

A   BELGIAN    CHRISTMAS 67 

THE   FESTIVAL   OF  THE   AISNE 69 

THE  CRY  OF  EARTH 70 

CHILD  AND   FATHER 71 

THE  RISING  OF  THE  MOON 72 

WHERE  THE  BATTLE  PASSED 73 

THE    IRON    AGE 71 

THE   BATTLE 75 

ON  RE-READING  CERTAIN  GERMAN  POETS   ....  76 

ON  OPENING  AN  OLD  SCHOOL  VOLUME  OF  HORACE    .  77 

LAUS  DEO '78 

THE   NEW   YORK    SKYSCRAPER 79 

ROBERT  BROWNING 80 

RILEY 81 

DON  QUIXOTE 82 

THE  WOMAN 83 

THE  SONG  OF  SONGS 81 

OGLETHORPE 90 

A    POET'S    EPITAPH 96 


THE  CUP  OF  COMUS 

PROEM 

THE  Nights  of  song  and  story, 
With  breath  of  frost  and  rain, 
Whose  locks  are  wild  and  hoary, 
Whose  fingers  tap  the  pane 
With  leaves,  are  come  again. 

The  Nights  of  old  October, 
That  hug  the  hearth  and  tell, 
To  child  and  grandsire  sober, 
Tales  of  what  long  befell 
Of  witch  and  warlock  spell. 

Nights,  that,  like  gnome  and  faery, 
Go,  lost  in  mist  and  moon, 
And  speak  in  legendary 
Thoughts  or  a  mystic  rune, 
Much  like  the  owlet's  croon. 

Or  whirling  on  like  witches, 
Amid  the  brush  and  broom, 
Call  from  the  Earth  its  riches, 
Of  leaves  and  wild  perfume, 
And  strew  them  through  the  gloom. 

Till  death,  in  all  his  starkness, 
Assumes  a  form  of  fear, 
And  somewhere  in  the  darkness 
Seems  slowly  drawing  near 
In  raiment  torn  and  sere. 
11 


And  with  him  comes  November, 
Who  drips  outside  the  door, 
And  wails  what  men  remember 
Of  things  believed  no  more, 
Of  superstitious  lore. 

Old  tales  of  elf  and  daemon, 
Of  Kobold  and  of  Troll, 
And  of  the  goblin  woman 
Who  robs  man  of  his  soul 
To  make  her  own  soul  whole. 

And  all  such  tales,  that  glamoured 
The  child-heart  once  with  fright, 
That  aged  lips  have  stammered 
For  many  a  child's  delight, 
Shall  speak  again  to-night. 

To-night,  of  moonlight  minted, 
That  is  a  cup  divine, 
Whence  Death,  all  opal-tinted, — 
Wreathed  red  with  leaf  and  vine, — 
Shall  drink  a  magic  wine. 

A  wonder-cup  of  Comus, 
That  with  enchantment  streams, 
In  which  the  heart  of  Momus, — 
That,  moon-like,  glooms  and  gleams, 
Is  drowned  with  all  its  dreams. 


THE  INTRUDER 

rilHERE  is  a  smell  of  roses  in  the  room 
•*•     Tea-roses,  dead  of  bloom; 
An  invalid,  she  sits  there  in  the  gloom, 
And  contemplates  her  doom. 

The  pattern  of  the  paper,  and  the  grain 

Of  carpet,  with  its  stain, 

Have  stamped  themselves,  like  fever,  on  her  brain, 

And  grown  a  part  of  pain. 

It  has  been  long,  so  long,  since  that  one  died, 
Or  sat  there  by  her  side ; 

She  felt  so  lonely,  lost,  she  would  have  cried, — 
But  all  her  tears  were  dried. 

A  knock  came  on  the  door :  she  hardly  heard ; 
And  then  —  a  whispered  word, 
And  someone  entered;  at  which,  like  a  bird, 
Her  caged  heart  cried  and  stirred. 

And  then  —  she  heard  a  voice ;  she  was  not  wrong : 
His  voice,  alive  and  strong: 

She  listened,  while  the  silence  filled  with  song  — 
Oh,  she  had  waited  long ! 

She  dared  not  turn  to  see ;  she  dared  not  look ; 
But  slowly  closed  her  book, 
And  waited  for  his  kiss ;  could  scarcely  brook 
The  weary  time  he  took. 

13 


There  was  no  one  remembered  her  —  no  one! 
But  him,  beneath  the  sun. — 
Who  then  had  entered?  entered  but  to  shun 
Her  whose  long  work  was  done. 

She  raised  her  eyes,  and  —  no  one !  —  Yet  she  felt 

A  presence  near,  that  smelt 

Like  faded  roses ;  and  that  seemed  to  melt 

Into  her  soul  that  knelt. 

She  could  not  see,  but  Imew  that  he  was  there, 
Smoothing  her  hands  and  hair; 
Filling  with  scents  of  roses  all  the  air, 
Standing  beside  her  chair. 


And  so  they  found  her,  sitting  quietly, 
Her  book  upon  her  knee, 
Staring  before  her,  as  if  she  could  see  — 
What  was  it  —  Death?  or  he? 


A  GHOST  OF  YESTERDAY 

THERE  is  a  house  beside  a  way,* 
Where  dwells  a  ghost  of  Yesterday : 
The  old  face  of  a  beauty,  faded, 
Looks  from  its  garden :  and  the  shaded 
Long  walks  of  locust-trees,  that  seem 
Forevermore  to  sigh  and  dream,      ^ 
Keep  whispering  low  a  word  that's  true, 
Of  shapes  that  haunt  its  avenue, 
Clad  as  in  days  of  belle  and  beau, 

Who  come  and  go 
Around  its  ancient  portico. 

At  first,  in  stock  and  beaver-hat, 

With  flitting  of  the  moth  and  bat, 

An  old  man,  leaning  on  a  cane, 

Comes  slowly  down  the  locust  lane ; 

Looks  at  the  house;  then,  groping,  goes 

Into  the  garden  where  the  rose 

Still  keeps  sweet  tryst  with  moth  and  moon; 

And,  humming  to  himself  a  tune, 

— "  Lorena  "  or  "  Ben  Bolt  "  we'll  say, — 

Waits,  bent  and  gray, 
For  some  fair  ghost  of  Yesterday. 

The  Yesterday  that  holds  his  all  — 
More  real  to  him  than  is  the  wall 
Of  mossy  stone  near  which  he  stands, 
Still  reaching  out  for  her  his  hands  — 
15 


For  her,  the  girl,  who  waits  him  there, 
A  lace-gowned  phantom,  dark  of  hair, 
Whose  loveliness  still  keeps  those  walks, 
And  with  whose  Memory  he  talks ; 
Upon  his  heart  her  happy  head, — 

So  it  is  said, — 
The  girl,  now  half  a  century  dead. 


LORDS  OF  THE  VISIONARY  EYE 

I     CAME  upon  a  pool  that  shone, 
-*•       Clear,  emerald-like,  among  the  hills, 
That  seemed  old  wizards  round  a  stone 
Of  magic  that  a  vision  thrills. 

And  as  I  leaned  and  looked,  it  seemed 
Vague  shadows  gathered  there  and  here  — 
A  dream,  perhaps  the  water  dreamed 
Of  some  wild  past,  some  long-dead  year.  .  .  . 

A  temple  of  a  race  unblessed 
Rose  huge  within  a  hollow  land, 
Where,  on  an  altar,  bare  of  breast, 
One  lay,  a  man,  bound  foot  and  hand. 

A  priest,  who  served  some  hideous  god, 
Stood  near  him  on  the  altar  stair, 
Clothed  on  with  gold;  and  at  his  nod 
A  multitude  seemed  gathered  there. 
16 


I  saw  a  sword  descend;  and  then 
The  priest  before  the  altar  turned; 
He  was  not  formed  like  mortal  man, 
But  like  a  beast  whose  eyeballs  burned. 

Amorphous,  strangely  old,  he  glared 
Above  the  victim  he  had  slain, 
Who  lay  with  bleeding  bosom  bared, 
From  which  dripped  slow  a  crimson  rain, 

Then  turned  to  me  a  face  of  stone 
And  mocked  above  the  murdered  dead, 
That  fixed  its  cold  eyes  on  his  own 
And  cursed  him  with  a  look  of  dread. 

And  then,  it  seemed,  I  knew  the  place, 
And  how  this  sacrifice  befell : 
I  knew  the  god,  the  priest's  wild  face, 
I  knew  the  dead  man  —  knew  him  well. 

And  as  I  stooped  again  to  look, 
I  heard  the  dark  hills  sigh  and  laugh, 
And  in  the  pool  the  water  shook 
As  if  one  stirred  it  with  a  staff. 

And  all  was  still  again  and  clear: 
The  pool  lay  crystal  as  before, 
Temple  and  priest  were  gone ;  the  mere 
Had  closed  again  its  magic  door. 


17 


A  face  was  there ;  it  seemed  to  shine 
As  round  it  died  the  sunset's  flame  — 
The  victim's  face  ?  —  or  was  it  mine  ?  — 
They  were  to  me  the  very  same. 

And  yet,  and  yet  —  could  this  thing  be?  - 

And  in  my  soul  I  seemed  to  know, 

At  once,  this  was  a  memory 

Of  some  past  life,  lived  long  ago. 

Recorded  by  some  secret  sense, 
In  forms  that  we  as  dreams  retain ; 
Some  moment,  as  experience, 
Projects  in  pictures  on  the  brain. 


THE  CREAKING  DOOR 

COME  in,  old  Ghost  of  all  that  used  to  be !  - 
You  find  me  old, 
And  love  grown  cold, 
And  fortune  fled  to  younger  company : 
Departed,  as  the  glory  of  the  day, 
With   friends! —     And   you,   it   seems,  have   come   to 

stay. — 
'T  is  time  to  pray. 

Come ;  sit  with  me,  here  at  Life's  creaking  door, 
All  comfortless. — 
Think,  nay !  then,  guess, 

18 


What  was  the  one  thing,  eh?  that  made  me  poor?  — 
The  love  of  beauty,  that  I  could  not  bind? 
My  dream  of  truth?  or  faith  in  humankind?  — 
But,  never  mind ! 

All  are  departed  now,  with  love  and  youth, 

Whose  stay  was  brief; 

And  left  but  grief 

And  gray  regret  —  two  jades,  who  tell  the  truth; 
Whose  children  —  memories  of  things  to  be, 
And  things  that  failed, —  within  my  heart,  ah  me ! 

Cry  constantly. 

None  can  turn  time  back,  and  no  man  delay 

Death  when  he  knocks. — 

What  good  are  clocks, 
Or  human  hearts,  to  stay  for  us  that  day 
When  at  Life's  creaking  door  we  see  his  smile, — 
Death's!  at  the  door  of  this  old  House  of  Trial?  — 

Old  Ghost,  let's  wait  awhile. 


19 


AT  THE  END  OF  THE  ROAD 

THIS  is  the  truth  as  I  see  it,  my  dear, 
Out  in  the  wind  and  the  rain: 
They  who  have  nothing  have  little  to  fear, — 

Nothing  to  lose  or  to  gain. 
Here  by  the  road  at  the  end  o'  the  year, 
Let  us  sit  down  and  drink  o'  our  beer, 
Happy^Go-Lucky  and  her  cavalier, 
Out  in  the  wind  and  the  rain. 

Now  we  are  old,  oh  isn't  it  fine 

Out  in  the  wind  and  the  rain? 
Now  we  have  nothing  why  snivel  and  whine  ?  — 

What  would  it  bring  us  again  ?  — 
When  I  was  young  I  took  you  like  wine, 
Held  you  and  kissed  you  and  thought  you  divine  - 
Happy-Go-Lucky,  the  habit's  still  mine, 

Out  in  the  wind  and  the  rain. 

Oh,  my  old  Heart,  what  a  life  we  have  led, 

Out  in  the  wind  and  the  rain ! 
How  we  have  drunken  and  how  we  have  fed ! 

Nothing  to  lose  or  to  gain !  — 
Cover  the  fire  now ;  get  we  to  bed. 
Long  was  the  journey  and  far  has  it  led: 
Come,  let  us  sleep,  lass,  sleep  like  the  dead, 

Out  in  the  wind  and  the  rain. 


THE  TROUBADOUR  OF  TREBIZEND 

NIGHT,  they  say,  is  no  man's  friend: 
And  at  night  he  met  his  end 
In  the  woods  of  Trebizend. 

Hate  crouched  near  him  as  he  strode 
Through  the  blackness  of  the  road, 
Where  my  Lord  seemed  some  huge  toad. 

Eyes  of  murder  glared  and  burned 
At  each  bend  of  road  he  turned, 
And  where  wild  the  torrent  churned. 

And  with  Death  we  stood  and  stared 
From  the  bush  as  by  he  fared, — 
But  he  never  looked  or  cared. 

He  went  singing;  and  a  rose 

Lay  upon  his  heart's  repose  — 

With  what  thought  of  her  —  who  knows  ? 

He  had  done  no  other  wrong 

Save  to  sing  a  simple  song, 

"  I  have  loved  you  —  loved  you  long" 

And  my  lady  smiled  and  sighed ; 
Gave  a  rose  and  looked  moist  eyed, 
And  forgot  she  was  a  bride. 


My  sweet  lady,  Jehan  de  Grace, 
With  the  pale  Madonna  face, 
He  had  brought  to  his  embrace. 

And  my  Lord  saw:  gave  commands: 
I  was  of  his  bandit  bands. — 
Love  should  perish  at  our  hands. 

Young  the  Knight  was.     He  should  sing 
Nevermore  of  love  or  spring, 
Or  of  any  gentle  thing. 

When  he  stole  at  midnight's  hour, 
To  my  Lady's  forest  bower, 
We  were  hidden  near  the  tower. 

In  the  woods  of  Trebizend 

There  he  met  an  evil  end. — 

Night,  you  know,  is  no  man's  friend. 

He  has  fought  in  fort  and  field; 
Borne  for  years  a  stainless  shield, 
And  in  strength  to  none  would  yield. 

But  we  seized  him  unaware, 

Bound  and  hung  him ;  stripped  him  bare, 

Left  him  to  the  wild  boars  there. 

Never  has  my  Lady  known. — 

But  she  often  sits  alone, 

Weeping  when  my  Lord  is  gone.  .  .  . 


Night,  they  say,  is  no  man's  friend. — 
In  the  woods  of  Trebizend 
There  he  met  an  evil  end. 

Now  my  old  Lord  sleeps  in  peace, 
While  my  Lady  —  each  one  sees  — 
Waits,  and  keeps  her  memories. 

GHOSTS 

T     OW,  weed-climbed  cliffs,  o'er  which  at  noon 

•*— •        The  sea-mists  swoon : 

Wind-twisted  pines,  through  which  the  crow 

Goes  winging  slow: 
Dim  fields,  the  sower  never  sows, 

Or  reaps  or  mows : 
And  near  the  sea  a  ghostly  house  of  stone 

Where  all  is  old  and  lone. 

A  garden,  falling  in  decay, 

Where  statues  gray 
Peer,  broken,  out  of  tangled  weed 

And  thorny  seed: 
Satyr  and  Nymph,  that  once  made  love 

By  walk  and  grove: 
And,  near  a  fountain,  shattered,  green  with  mold, 

A  sundial,  lichen-old. 

Like  some  sad  life  bereft, 
To  musing  left, 

23 


The  house  stands :  love  and  youth 

Both  gone,  in  sooth: 
But  still  it  sits  and  dreams : 

And  round  it  seems 
Some  memory  of  the  past,  still  young  and  fair, 

Haunting  each  crumbling  stair. 

And  suddenly  one  dimly  sees, 

Come  through  the  trees, 
A  woman,  like  a  wild  moss-rose: 

A  man,  who  goes 
Softly :  and  by  the  dial 

They  kiss  a  while: 
Then  drowsily  the  mists  blow  round  them,  wan, 

And  they,  like  ghosts,  are  gone. 


THE  LONELY  LAND 

A  RIVER  binds  the  lonely  land, 
A  river  like  a  silver  band, 
To  crags  and  shores  of  yellow  sand. 

It  is  a  place  where  kildees  cry, 
And  endless  marshes  eastward  lie, 
Whereon  looks  down  a  ghostly  sky. 

A  house  stands  gray  and  all  alone 
Upon  a  hill,  as  dim  of  tone, 
And  lonely,  as  a  lonely  stone. 


There  are  no  signs  of  life  about : 
No  barnyard  bustle,  cry  and  shout 
Of  children  who  run  laughing  out. 

No  crow  of  cocks,  no  low  of  cows, 
No  sheep-bell  tinkling  under  boughs 
Of  beech,  or  song  in  garth  or  house. 

Only  the  curlew's  mournful  call, 
Circling  the  sky  at  evenfall, 
And  loon  lamenting  over  all. 

A  garden,  where  the  sunflower  dies 
And  lily  on  the  pathway  lies, 
Looks  blindly  at  the  blinder  skies. 

And  round  the  place  a  lone  wind  blows, 
As  when  the  Autumn  grieving  goes, 
Tattered  and  dripping,  to  its  close. 

And  on  decaying  shrubs  and  vines 

The  moon's  thin  crescent,  dwindling  shines, 

Caught  in  the  claws  of  sombre  pines. 

And  then  a  pale  girl,  like  a  flower, 
Enters  the  garden :  for  an  hour 
She  waits  beside  a  wild-rose  bower. 

There  is  no  other  one  around ; 
No  sound,  except  the  cricket's  sound 
And  far-off  baying  of  a  hound. 
25 


There  is  no  fire  or  candle-light 

To  flash  its  message  through  the  night 

Of  welcome  from  some  casement  bright. 

Only  the  moon,  that  thinly  throws 
A  shadow  on  the  girl  and  rose, 
As  to  its  setting  slow  it  goes. 

And  when  'tis  gone,  from  shore  and  stream 
There  steals  a  mist,  that  turns  to  dream 
That  place  where  all  things  merely  seem. 

And  through  the  mist  there  goes  a  cry, 
Not  of  the  earth  nor  of  the  sky, 
But  of  the  years  that  have  passed  by. 

And  with  the  cry  there  comes  the  rain, 
Whispering  of  all  that  was  in  vain 
At  every  door  and  window-pane. 

And  she,  who  waits  beside  the  rose, 
Hears,  with  her  heart,  a  hoof  that  goes, 
Galloping  afar  to  where  none  knows. 

And  then  she  bows  her  head  and  weeps  .  . 
And  suddenly  a  shadow  sweeps 
Around,  and  in  its  darkening  deeps. 

The  house,  the  girl,  the  cliffs  and  stream 
Are  gone. —     And  they,  and  all  things  seem 
But  phantoms,  merely,  in  a  dream. 


THE  WIND  WITCH 

THE  wind  that  met  her  in  the  park, 
Came  hurrying  to  my  side  — 
It  ran  to  me,  it  leapt  to  me, 
And  nowhere  would  abide. 

It  whispered  in  my  ear  a  word, 
So  sweet  a  word,  I  swear, 
It  smelt  of  honey  and  the  kiss 
It'd  stolen  from  her  hair. 

Then  shouted  me  the  flowery  way 
Whereon  she  walked  with  dreams, 
And  bade  me  wait  and  watch  her  pass 
Among  the  glooms  and  gleams. 

It  ran  to  meet  her  as  she  came 

And  clasped  her  to  its  breast ; 

It  kissed  her  throat,  her  chin,  her  mouth, 

And  laughed  its  merriest. 

Then  to  my  side  it  leapt  again, 
And  took  me  by  surprise : 
The  kiss  it'd  stolen  from  her  lips 
It  blew  into  my  eyes. 

Since  then,  it  seems,  I  have  grown  blind 
To  every  face  but  hers : 
It  haunts  me  sleeping  or  awake, 
And  is  become  my  curse. 
27 


The  spell,  that  kiss  has  laid  on  me, 
Shall  hold  my  eyes  the  same, 
Until  I  give  it  back  again 
To  lips  from  which  it  came. 


OLD  GHOSTS 

CLOVE-SPICY  pinks  and  phlox  that  fill  the  sense 
With  drowsy  indolence ; 
And  in  the  evening  skies 
Interior  splendor,  pregnant  with  surprise, 
As  if  in  some  new  wise 
The  full  moon  soon  would  rise. 

Hung  with  the  crimson  aigrets  of  its  seeds 

The  purple  monkshood  bleeds ; 

The  dewy  crickets  chirr, 
And  everywhere  are  lights  of  lavender; 

And  scents  of  musk  and  myrrh 

To  guide  the  foot  of  her. 

She  passes  like  a  misty  glimmer  on 

To  where  the  rose  blooms  wan, — 

A  twilight  moth  in  flight, — 
As  in  the  west  its  streak  of  chrysolite 

The  dusk  erases  quite, 

And  ushers  in  the  night. 


And  now  another  shadow  passes  slow, 

With  firefly  light  a-glow : 

The  scent  of  a  cigar, 
And  two  who  kiss  beneath  the  evening-star, 

Where,  in  a  moonbeam  bar, 

A  whippoorwill  cries  afar. 

Again  the  tale  is  told,  that  has  been  told 

So  often  here  of  old: 

Ghosts  of  dead  lovers  they  ? 
Or  memories  only  of  some  perished  day?  — 

Old  ghosts,  no  time  shall  lay, 

That  haunt  the  place  alway. 


THE  NAME  ON  THE  TREE 

I   SAW  a  name  carved  on  a  tree  — 
"Julia"; 
A  simpler  name  there  could  not  be  — 

Julia : 

But  seeing  it  I  seemed  to  see 
A  Devon  garden, —  pleasantly 
About  a  parsonage, —  the  bee 
Made  drowsy-sweet;  where  rosemary 
And  pink  and  phlox  and  peony 

Bowed  down  to  one 
Whom  Herrick  made  to  bloom  in  Poetry. 


A  moment  there  I  saw  her  stand, — 

Julia ; 
A  gillyflower  in  her  hand, — 

Julia : 

And  then,  kind-faced  and  big  and  bland, 
As  raised  by  some  magician's  wand, 
Herrick  himself  passed  by,  sun-tanned, 
And  smiling;  and  the  quiet  land 
Seemed  to  take  on  and  understand 

A  dream  long  dreamed, 
And  for  the  lives  of  two  some  gladness  planned. 

And  then  I  seemed  to  hear  a  sigh, — 

"  Julia !  " 

And  someone  softly  walking  nigh, — 

Julia : 

The  leaves  shook ;  and  a  butterfly 

Trailed  past ;  and  through  the  sleepy  sky 

A  bird  flew,  crying  strange  its  cry  — 

Then  suddenly  before  my  eye 

Two  lovers  strolled  —     They  knew  not  why 
I  looked  amazed, — 

But  I  had  seen  old  ghosts  of  long  dead  loves  go  by. 


THE  HAUNTED  GARDEN 

THERE  a  tattered  marigold 
And  dead  asters  manifold, 
Showed  him  where  the  garden  old 

Of  time  bloomed: 
Briar  and  thistle  overgrew 
Corners  where  the  rose  once  blew, 
Where  the  phlox  of  every  hue 
Lay  entombed. 

Here  a  coreopsis  flower 
Pushed  its  disc  above  a  bower, 
Where  once  poured  a  starry  shower, 

Bronze  and  gold : 
And  a  twisted  hollyhock, 
And  the  remnant  of  a  stock, 
Struggled  up,  'mid  burr  and  dock, 

Through  the  mold. 

Flower-pots,  with  mossy  cloak, 
Strewed  a  place  beneath  an  oak, 
Where  the  garden-bench  lay  broke 

By  the  tree: 

And  he  thought  of  her,  who  here 
Sat  with  him  but  yesteryear; 
Her,  whose  presence  now  seemed  near 

Stealthily. 


31 


And  the  garden  seemed  to  look 
For  her  coming.     Petals  shook 
On  the  spot  where,  with  her  book, 

Oft  she  sat. — 

Suddenly  there  blew  a  wind: 
And  across  the  garden  blind, 
Like  a  black  thought  in  a  mind, 

Stole  a  cat. 

Lean  as  hunger ;  like  the  shade 
Of  a  dream ;  a  ghost  unlaid ; 
Through  the  weeds  its  way  it  made, 

Gaunt  and  old: 

Once  't  was  hers.     He  looked  to  see 
If  she  followed  to  the  tree. — 
Then  recalled  how  long  since  she 

Had  been  mold. 


THE  CLOSED  DOOR 

SHUT  it  out  of  the  heart  —  this  grief, 
O  Love,  with  the  years  grown  old  and  hoary! 
And  let  in  joy  that  life  is  brief, 
And  give  God  thanks  for  the  end  of  the  story. 
The  bond  of  the  flesh  is  transitory, 
And  beauty  goes  with  the  lapse  of  years  — 
The  brow's  white  rose  and  the  hair's  dark  glory  — - 
God  be  thanked  for  the  severing  shears ! 

Over  the  past,  Heart,  waste  no  tears! 
Over  the  past  and  all  its  madness, 
Its  wine  and  wormwood,  hopes  and  fears, 
That  never  were  worth  a  moment's  sadness. 
Here  she  lies  who  was  part  o'  its  gladness, 
Wife  and  mistress,  and  shared  its  woe, 
The  good  of  life  as  well  as  its  badness, — 
Look  on  her  face  and  see  if  you  know. 

Is  this  the  face?  —  yea,  ask  it  slow!  — 

The  hair,  the  form,  that  we  used  to  cherish  ?  — 

Where  is  the  glory  of  long-ago? 

The  beauty  we  said  would  never  perish. — 

Like  a  dream  we  dream,  or  a  thought  we  nourish, 

Nothing  of  earth  immortal  is: 

This  is  the  end  however  we  flourish  — 

All  that  is  fair  must  come  to  this. 


THE  LONG  ROOM 

HE  found  the  long  room  as  it  was  of  old, 
Glimmering  with  sunset's  gold ; 
That  made  the  tapestries  seem  full  of  eyes 
Strange  with  a  wild  surmise: 
Glaring  upon  a  Psyche  where  she  shone 
Carven  of  stainless  stone, 
Holding  a  crystal  heart  where  many  a  sun 
Seemed  starrily  bound  in  one: 
And  near  her,  grim  in  rigid  metal,  stood 
An  old  knight  in  a  wood, 

Groping  his  way :  the  bony  wreck,  that  was 
His  steed,  at  weary  pause. 
And  over  these  a  canvas  —  one  mad  mesh 
Of  Chrysoprase  tints  of  flesh 

And  breasts  —  Bohemian  cups,  whose  glory  gleamed 
For  one  who,  brutish,  seemed 
A  hideous  Troll,  unto  whose  lustful  arms 
She  yielded  glad  her  charms. 

Then  he  remembered  all  her  shame;  and  knew 

The  thing  that  he  must  do : 

These  were  but  records  of  his  life:  the  whole 

Portrayed  to  him  his  soul. — 

So,  drawing  forth  the  slim  Bithynian  phial, 

He  drained  it  with  a  smile. 

And  'twixt  the  Knight  and  Psyche  fell  and  died; 

The  arras,  evil-eyed, 


Glared  grimly  at  him  where  all  night  he  lay, 
And  where  a  stealthy  ray 

Pointed  her  to  him  —  her,  that  nymph  above, 
Who  gave  the  Troll  her  love. 


IN  PEARL  AND  GOLD 

"\  \  THEN  pearl  and  gold,  o'er  deeps  of  musk, 
»    *     The  moon  curves,  silvering  the  dusk, — 
As  in  a  garden,  dreaming, 
A  lily  slips  its  dewy  husk 
A  firefly  in  its  gleaming, — 
I  of  my  garden  am  a  guest; 
My  garden,  that,  in  beauty  dressed 
Of  simple  shrubs  and  oldtime  flowers, 
Chats  with  me  of  the  perished  hours, 
When  she  companioned  me  in  life, 
Living  remote  from  care  and  strife. 

It  says  to  me :     "  How  sad  and  slow 
The  hours  of  daylight  come  and  go, 
Until  the  Night  walks  here  again 
With  moon  and  starlight  in  her  train, 
And  she  and  I  with  perfumed  words 
Of  winds   and  waters,  dreaming  birds, 
And  flowers   and  crickets   and  the  moon, 
For  hour  on  hour,   in   soul   commune. — 

And  you,  and  you, 
Sit  here  and  listen  in  the  dew 
35 


For  her,  the  love,  you  used  to  know, 
Who  often  walked  here,  long  ago, 

Long  ago ; 
The  young,  sweet  love  you  used  to  know 

Long  ago ! 

Whom  oft  I  watched  with  violet  eye, 
Or  eye  of  dew,  as  she  passed  by : 

As  she  passed  by. 

And  I  reply,  with  half  a  sigh :  — 

"  You  knew  her  too  as  well  as  I, 

That  young  sweet  love  of  long-ago! 

That  young  sweet  love,  who  walked  here  slow. 

Oh,  speak  no  more  of  the  days  gone  by, 

Dear  days  gone  by, 
Lest  I  lay  me  down  on  your  heart  and  die !  " 


MOON  FAIRIES 

THE  moon,  a  circle  of  gold, 
O'er  the  crowded  housetops  rolled, 
And  peeped  in  an  attic,  where, 
'Mid  sordid  things  and  bare, 
A  sick  child  lay  and  gazed 
At  a  road  to  the  far-away, 
A  road  he  followed,  mazed, 
That  grew  from  a  moonbeam-ray, 

A  road  of  light  that  led 
From  the  foot  of  his  garret-bed 
Out  of  that  room  of  hate, 
Where  Poverty  slept  by  his  mate, 
Sickness  —  out  of  the  street, 
Into  a  wonderland, 
Where  a  voice  called,  far  and  sweet, 
"  Come,  follow  our  Fairy  band !  " 

A  purple  shadow,  sprinkled 
With  golden  star-dust,  twinkled 
Suddenly  into  the  room 
Out  of  the  winter  gloom: 
And  it  wore  a  face  to  him 
Of  a  dream  he'd  dreamed:  a  form 
Of  Joy,  whose  face  was  dim, 
Yet  bright  with  a  magic  charm. 


And  the  shadow  seemed  to  trail, 
Sounds  that  were  green  and  frail 
Dew-dripples ;  notes  that  fell 
Like  drops  in  a  ferny  dell; 
A  whispered  lisp  and  stir, 
Like  winds  among  the  leaves, 
Blent   with  a   cricket-chirr, 
And  coo  of  a  dove  that  grieves. 

And  the  Elfin  bore  on  its  back 
A  little  faery  pack 
Of  forest  scents:  of  loam 
And  mossy  sounds  of  foam; 
And  of  its  contents  breathed 
As  might  a  clod  of  ground 
Feeling  a  bud  unsheathed 
There  in  its  womb  profound. 

And  the  shadow  smiled  and  gazed 
At  the  child;  then  softly  raised 
Its  arms  and  seemed  to  grow 
To  a  tree  in  the  attic  low: 
And  from  its  glimmering  hands 
Shook  emerald  seeds  of  dreams, 
From  which  grew  fairy  bands, 
Like  firefly  motes  and  gleams. 

The  child  had  seen  them  before 
In  his  dreams  of  Fairy  lore: 

38 


The  Elves,  each  with  a  light 
To  guide  his  feet  a-right, 
Out  of  this  world  to  a  world 
Where  Magic  built  him  towers, 
And  Fable  old,  unfurled, 
Flags  like  wonderful  flowers. 

And  the  child,  who  knew  this,  smiled, 

And  rose,  a  different  child: 

No  more  he  knew  of  pain, 

Or  fear  of  heart  and  brain. — 

At  Poverty  there  that  slept 

He  never  even  glanced, 

But  into   the  moon-road   stept, 

And  out  of  the  garret  danced. 

Out  of  the  earthly  gloom, 

Out  of  the  sordid  room, 

Out,  on  a  moonbeam  ray !  — 

Now  at  last  to  play 

There  with  comrades  found ! 

Children   of  the  moon, 

There  on  faery  ground, 

Where  none  would  find  him  soon ! 


39 


HAEC  OLIM  MEMINISSE 

T^EBRILE  perfumes  as  of  faded  roses 
•*•          In  the  old  house  speak  of  love  to-day, 
Love  long  past ;  and  where  the  soft  day  closes, 
Down  the  west  gleams,  golden-red,  a  ray. 

Pointing  where  departed  splendor  perished, 
And  the  path  that  night  shall  walk,  and  hang, 

On  blue  boughs  of  heaven,  gold,  long  cherished  — 
Fruit  Hesperian, —  that  the  ancients  sang. 

And  to  him,  who  sits  there  dreaming,  musing, 

At  the  window  in  the  twilight  wan, 
Like  old  scent  of  roses  interfusing, 

Comes  a  vision  of  a  day  that's  gone. 

And  he  sees  Youth,  walking  brave  but  dimly 

'Mid  the  roses,  in  the  afterglow; 
And  beside  him,  like  a  star  seen  slimly, 

Love,  who  used  to  meet  him  long-ago. 

And  again  he  seems  to  hear  the  flowers 

Whispering  faintly  of  what  no  one  knows  — 

Of  the  dreams  they  dreamed  there  for  long  hours, 
Youth  and  Love,  between  their  hearts  a  rose. 

Youth  is  dead;  and  Love,  oh,  where  departed! 

Like  the  last  streak  of  the  dying  day, 
Somewhere  yonder,  in  a  world  uncharted, 

Calling  him,  with  memories,  away. 

40 


THE  MAGIC  PURSE 

WHAT  is  the  gold  of  mortal-kind 
To  that  men  find 
Deep  in  the  poet's  mind !  — 
That  magic  purse 
Of  Dreams  from  which 
God  builds  His  universe! 
That  makes  life  rich 
With  many  a  vision; 
Taking  the  soul  from  out  its  prison 
Of  facts  with  the  precision 
A  wildflower  dons 

When  Spring  comes  knocking  at  the  door 
Of  Earth  across  the  windy  lawns ; 
Calling  to  Joy  to  rise  and  dance  before 
Her  happy  feet: 
Or  with  the  beat 
And  bright  exactness  of  a  star, 
Hanging  its  punctual  point  afar, 
When  Night  comes  tripping  over  Heaven's  floor, 
Leaving  a  gate  ajar. 
That  leads  the  Heart  from  all  its  aching 
Far  above  where  day  is  breaking; 
Out  of  the  doubts,  the  agonies, 
The  strife  and  sin,  to  join  with  these  — 
Hope  and  Beauty  and  Joy  that  build 
Their  golden  walls 
Of  sunset  where,  with  spirits  filled, 
A  Presence  calls, 

41 


And  points  a  land 

Where  Love  walks,  silent;  hand  in  hand 
With  the  Spirit  of  God,  and  leads  Man  right 
Out  of  the  darkness  into  the  light. 


THE  CHILD  AT  THE  GATE 

T  1 1HE  sunset  was  a  sleepy  gold, 
•*•         And  stars  were  in  the  skies 
When  down  a  weedy  lane  he  strolled 
In  vague  and  thoughtless  wise. 

And  then  he  saw  it,  near  a  wood, 

An  old  house,  gabled  brown, 
Like  some  old  woman,  in  a  hood, 

Looking  toward  the  town. 

A  child  stood  at  its  broken  gate, 

Singing  a  childish  song, 
And  weeping  softly  as  if  Fate 

Had  done  her  child's  heart  wrong. 

He  spoke  to  her :  — "  Now  tell  me,  dear, 

Why  do  you  sing  and  weep  ?  " — 
But  she  —  she  did  not  seem  to  hear, 

But  stared  as  if  asleep. 


Then  suddenly  she  turned  and  fled 

As  if  with  soul  of  fear. 
He  followed;  but  the  house  looked  dead, 

And  empty  many  a  year. 

The  light  was  wan:  the  dying  day 

Grew  ghostly  suddenly : 
And  from  the  house  he  turned  away, 

Wrapped  in  its  mystery. 

They  told  him  no  one  dwelt  there  now: 

It  was  a  haunted  place. — 
And  then  it  came  to  him,  somehow, 

The  memory  of  a  face. 

That  child's  —  like  hers,  whose  name  was  Joy  — 

For  whom  his  heart  was  fain : 
The  face  of  her  whom,  when  a  boy, 

He  played  with  in  that  lane. 


THE  LOST  DREAM 

THE  black  night  showed  its  hungry  teeth, 
And  gnawed  with  sleet  at  roof  and  pane ; 
Beneath  the  door  I  heard  it  breathe  — 
A  beast  that  growled  in  vain. 

The  hunter  wind  stalked  up  and  down, 
And  crashed  his  ice-spears  through  each  tree ; 
Before  his  rage,  in  tattered  gown, 
I  saw  the  maid  moon  flee. 

There  stole  a  footstep  to  my  door; 
A  voice  cried  in  my  room  and  —  there ! 
A  shadow  cowled  and  gaunt  and  hoar, 
Death,  leaned  above  my  chair. 

He  beckoned  me ;  he  bade  me  rise, 
And  follow  through  the  madman  night ; 
Into  my  heart's  core  pierced  his  eyes, 
And  lifted  me  with  might. 

I  rose ;  I  made  no  more  delay ; 
And  followed  where  his  eyes  compelled; 
And  through  the  darkness,  far  away, 
They  lit  me  and  enspelled. 

Until  we  reached  an  ancient  wood, 
That  flung  its  twisted  arms  around, 
As  if  in  anguish  that  it  stood 
On  dark,  unhallowed  ground. 
44 


And  then  I  saw  it  —  cold  and  blind  — 
The  dream,  that  had  my  heart  to  share, 
That  fell,  before  its  feet  could  find 
Its  home,  and  perished  there. 


T 


WITCHCRAFT 

HIS  world  is  made  a  witchcraft  place 
With  gazing  on  a  woman's  face. 


Now  'tis  her  smile,  whose  sorcery 
Turns  all  my  thoughts  to  melody. 

Now  'tis  her  frown,  that  comes  and  goes, 
That  makes  my  day  a  page  of  prose. 

And  now  her  laugh,  or  but  a  word, 
That  in  my  heart  frees  wild  a  bird. 

Some  day,  perhaps,  a  kiss  of  hers, 
Will  lift  from  my  dumb  life  the  curse 

Of  longing,  inarticulate, 

That  keeps  me  sad  and  celibate. 


TRANSPOSED  SEASONS 


gentian  and  the  bluebell  so 
Can  change  my  calendar, 
I  know  not  how  the  year  may  go, 

Or  what  the  seasons  are: 
The  months,  in  some  mysterious  wise, 
Take  their  expression  from  her  eyes. 

The  gentian  speaks  to  memory 

Of  autumns  long  since  gone, 
When  her  blue  eyes  smiled  up  at  me, 

And  heaven  was  flushed  with  dawn  : 
'T  was  autumn  then  and  leaves  were  sere, 
But  in  my  heart  't  was  spring  o'  the  year. 

The  bluebell  says  a  message  too 
Of  springs  long  passed  away, 

When  in  my  eyes  her  eyes  of  blue 
Gazed  and  't  was  close  of  day  : 

Spring  spread  around  her  fragrant  chart, 

But  it  was  autumn  in  my  heart. 


THE  OLD  DREAMER 

COME,  let's  climb  into  our  attic, 
In  our  house  that's  old  and  gray ! 
Life,  you're  old  and  I'm  rheumatic, 
And  —  it's  close  of  day. 

Lay  aside  your  rags  and  tatters, 
Shirt  and  shoes  so  soiled  with  clay ! 
They're  no  use  now.     Nothing  matters  - 
It  is  close  of  day. 

Let's  to  bed.     It's  cold.     No  fire. 
And  no  lamp  to  make  a  ray. — 
Where's  our  servant,  young  Desire? — 
Gone  at  close  of  day. 

Oft  she  served  us  with  fine  glances, 
Helped  us  out  at  work  and  play : 
She  is  gone  now;  better  chances; 
And  it's  close  of  day. 

Where  is  Hope,  who  flaunted  scarlet? 
Hope,  who  led  us  oft  astray? 
Has  she  proved  herself  a  harlot 
At  the  close  of  day? 

What's  become  of  Dream  and  Vision? 
Friends  we  thought  were  here  to  stay? 
Has  life  clapped  the  two  in  prison 
At  the  close  of  day? 

47 


They  are  gone ;  and  how  we  miss  them ! 
They  who  made  our  garret  gay. 
How  we  used  to  hug  and  kiss  them !  — 
But  — 'tis  close  of  day. 

Where's   friend  Love   now?  —  Who   supposes? 
Has  he  flung  himself  away? 
Left  us  for  a  wreath  of  roses 
At  the  close  of  day? 

And  where's  Song?  the  soul  elected  — 
Has  he  quit  us  too  for  aye?  — 
Was  it  poverty  he  suspected 
Near  the  close  of  day? 

How  our  attic  rang  their  laughter! 
How  it  echoed  laugh  and  lay ! 
None  may  take  their  place  hereafter  ?  — 
It  is  close  of  day. 

We  have  done  the  best  we  could  do. 
Let  us  kneel  awhile  and  pray. 
Now,  no  matter  what  we  would  do, 
It  is  close  of  day. 

Let's  to  bed  then !     It's  December. 
Long  enough  since  it  was  May !  — 
Let's  forget  it,  and  remember 
Now  'tis  close  of  day. 


48 


A  LAST  WORD 

OH,  for  some  cup  of  consummating  might, 
Filled  with  life's  kind  conclusion,  lost  in  night  1 
A  wine  of  darkness,  that  with  death  shall  cure 
This  sickness  called  existence !  —  Oh  to  find 
Surcease  of  sorrow !  quiet  for  the  mind, 
An  end  of  thought  in  something  dark  and  sure ! 
Mandrake  and  hellebore,  or  poison  pure !  — 
Some  drug  of  death,  wherein  there  are  no  dreams  \  — 
No  more,  no  more,  with  patience,  to  endure 
The  wrongs  of  life,  the  hate  of  men,  it  seems ; 
Or  wealth's  authority,  tyranny  of  time, 
And  lamentations  and  the  boasts  of  man! 
To  hear  no  more  the  wild  complaints  of  toil, 
And  struggling  merit,  that,  unknown,  must  starve: 
To  see  no  more  life's  disregard  for  Art ! 
Oh  God!  to  know  no  longer  anything! 
Nor  good,  nor  evil,  or  what  either  means! 
Nor  hear  the  changing  tides  of  customs  roll 
On  the  dark  shores  of  Time !     No  more  to  hear 
The  stream  of  Life  that  furies  on  the  shoals 
Of  hard  necessity !     No  more  to  see 
The  unavailing  battle  waged  of  Need 
Against  adversity !  —  Merely  to  lie,  at  last, 
Pulseless  and  still,  at  peace  beneath  the  sod ! 
To  think  and  dream  no  more !  no  more  to  hope ! 
At  rest  at  last !  at  last  at  peace  and  rest, 
Clasped  by  some  kind  tree's  gnarled  arm  of  root 
Bearing  me  upward  in  its  large  embrace 

49 


To  gentler  things  and  fairer  —  clouds  and  winds, 

And  stars  and  sun  and  moon !     To  undergo 

The  change  the  great  trees  know  when  Spring  comes  in 

With  shoutings  and  rejoicings  of  the  rain, 

To  swiftly  rise  an  atom  in  a  host, 

The  myriad  army  of  the  leaves ;  and  stand 

A  handsbreadth  nearer  Heaven  and  what  is  God ! 

To  pulse  in  sap  that  beats  unfevered  in 

The  life  we  call  inanimate  —  the  heart 

Of  some  great  tree.     And  so,  unconsciously, 

As  sleeps  a  child,  clasped  in  its  mother's  arm, 

Be  taken  back,  in  amplitudes  of  grace, 

To  Nature's  heart,  and  so  be  lost  in  her. 


THE  SHADOW 

\  SHADOW  glided  down  the  way 
•*•*•  Where  sunset  groped  among  the  trees, 
And  all  the  woodland  bower,  asway 
With  trouble  of  the  evening  breeze. 

A  shape,  it  moved  with  head  held  down; 
I  knew  it  not,  yet  seemed  to  know 
Its  form,  its  carriage  of  a  clown, 
Its  raiment  of  the  long-ago. 

It  never  turned  or  spoke  a  word, 
But  fixed  its  gaze  on  something  far, 
50 


As  if  within  its  heart  it  heard 
The  summons  of  the  evening  star. 

I  turned  to  it  and  tried  to  speak ; 

To  ask  it  of  the  thing  it  saw, 

Or  heard,  beyond  Earth's   outmost  peak 

The  dream,  the  splendor,  and  the  awe. 

What  beauty  or  what  terror  there 
Still  bade  its  purpose  to  ascend 
Above  the  sunset's  sombre  glare, 
The  twilight  and  the  long  day's  end. 

It  looked  at  me  but  said  no  word: 
Then  suddenly  I  saw  the  truth :  — 
This  was  the  call  that  once  I  heard 
And  failed  to  follow  in  my  youth. 

Now  well  I  saw  that  this  was  I  — 
My  own  dead  self  who  walked  with  me, 
Who  died  in  that  dark  hour  gone  by 
With  all  the  dreams  that  used  to  be. 


51 


ON  THE  ROAD 

I     ET  us  bid  the  world  good-by, 
•*— *   Now  while  sun  and  cloud's  above  us, 
While  we've  nothing  to  deny, 
Nothing  but  our  selves  to  love  us: 
Let  us  fancy,  I  and  you, 
All  the  dreams  we  dreamed  came  true. 

We  have  gone  but  half  the  road, 
Rugged  road  of  root  and  bowlder; 
Made  the  best  of  Life's  dark  load, 
Cares,  that  helped  us  to  grow  older: 
We,  my  dear,  have  done  our  best  — 
Let  us  stop  awhile  and  rest. 

Let  us,  by  this  halfway  stile, 
Put  away  the  world's  desire, 
And  sit  down,  a  little  while, 
With  our  hearts,  and  light  a  fire: 
Sing  the  songs  that  once  we  sung 
In  the  days  when  we  were  young. 

Haply  they  will  bring  again, 
From  the  Lands  of  Song  and  Story, 
To  our  sides  the  elfin  train 
Of  the  dreams  we  dreamed  of  glory, 
That  are  one  now  with  the  crew 
Of  the  deeds  we  did  not  do. 


Here  upon  the  road  of  Life 
Let  us  rest  us ;  take  our  pleasure : 
Free  from  care  and  safe  from  strife, 
Count  again  our  only  treasure  — 
Love,  that  helped  us  on  our  way, 
Our  companion  night  and  day. 


RECON  CILIA  TION 

LISTEN,  dearest !  you  must  love  me  more, 
More  than  you  did  before !  — 
Hark,  what  a  beating  here  of  wings ! 
Never  at  rest, 
Dear,  in  your  breast !  — 
Is  it  your  heart  with  its  flutterings, 
Making  a  music,  love,  for  us  both? 
Or  merely  a  moth,  a  velvet-winged  moth, 
Which  out  of  the  garden's  fragrance  swings, 
Weaving  a  spell, 

That  holds  the  rose  and  the  moon  in  thrall  ?  — 
I  love  you  more  than  I  can  tell ; 
And  no  recall 
How  long  ago 
Our  quarrel  and  all !  — 
You  say,  you  know, 
A  perfect  pearl  grows  out  of  —  well, 
A  little  friction;  tiny  grain 
Of  sand  or  shell  — 

So  love  grew  out  of  that  moment's  pain, 

53 


The  heart's  disdain  — 

Since  then  I  have  thought  of  no  one  but  you, 

And  how  your  heart  would  beat  on  mine, 

Like  light  on  dew. 

And  I  thought  how  foolish  to  fret  and  pine! 

Better  to  claim  the  fault  all  mine ! 

To  go  to  you  and  tell  you  that : 

And  how  stale  and  flat 

All  life  without  you  was,  and  vain! 

And  when  I  came*,  you  turned  and  smiled, 

Like  a  darling  child, 

And  I  knew  from  your  look  that,  in  your  heart, 

You  had  followed  the  self-same  train 

Of  thought  that  made  me  yours  again. — 

Dearest !  no  more !  — 

We  shall  never  part !  — 

So.     Turn  your  face  as  you  did  before. — 

I  smooth  your  brow 

And  kiss  you. —  Now  .  .   . 

Tell  me  true  — 

Did  you  miss  me,  dear,  as  I  missed  you? 


PORTENTS 

ABOVE  the  world  a  glare 
Of  sunset  —  guns  and  spears ; 
An  army,  no  one  hears. 
Of  mist  and  air: 
Long  lines  of  bronze  and  gold, 
Huge  helmets,  each  a  cloud ; 
And  then  a  fortress  old 
There  in  the  night  that  phantoms  seem  to  crowd. 

A  face  of  flame;  a  hand 

Of  crimson  alchemy 

Is  waved:  and,  solemnly, 

At  its  command, 

Opens  a  fiery  well, 

A  burning  hole, 

From  which  a  stream  of  hell, 

A  river  of  blood,  in  frenzy,  seems  to  roll. 

And  there,  upon  a  throne, 

Like  some  vast  precipice, 

Above  that  River  of  Dis, 

Behold  a  King!  alone! 

Around  whom  shapes  of  blood 

Take  form :  each  one  the  peer 

Of  those,  who,  in  the  wood 

Of  Dante's  Hell  froze  up  the  heart  with  fear. 


Then  shapes,  that  breast  to  breast 

Gallop  to  face  a  foe: 

And  through  the  crimson  glow 

Th'  imperial  crest 

Of  him  whose  banner  flies 

Above  a  world  that  burns, 

A  raven  in  the  skies, 

And  as  it  flies  into  a  Death's-Head  turns. 

The  wild  trees  writhe  and  twist 

Their  gaunt  limbs,  wrung  with  fear : 

And  now  into  my  ear 

A  word  seems  hissed; 

A  message,  filled  with  dread, 

A  dark,  foreboding  word, — 

"  Behold !  we  are  the  dead, 

Who  here  on  Earth  lived  only  by  the  sword !  " 


56 


THE  IRON  CRAGS 

UPON  the  iron  crags  of  War  I  heard  his  terrible 
daughters 

In  battle  speak  while  at  their  feet, 
In  gulfs  of  human  waters, 
A  voice,  intoning,  "  Where  is  God?  "  in  ceaseless  sorrow 

beat: 

And  to  my  heart,  in  doubt,  I  said,  ; 

"  God?  —  God's  above  the  storm  t 
O  heart,  be  brave,  be  comforted, 
And  keep  your  hearth-stone  warm 
For  her  who  breasts  the  storm  — 
God's  Peace,  the  fair  of  form." 
I  heard  the  Battle  Angels  cry  above  the  slain's  red 

mountains, 

While  from  their  wings  the  lightnings  hurled 
Of  Death's  destroying  fountains, 
And  thunder  of  their  revels  rolled  around  the  ruined 

world : 

Still  to  my  heart,  in  fear,  I  cried, 
"  God  ?  —  God  is  watching  there ! 
My  heart, —  oh,  keep  the  doorway  wide 
Here  in  your  House  of  Care, 
For  her  who  wanders  there, 
God's  Peace,  with  happy  hair." 

The  darkness  and  the  battle  passed:  and  rushing  on 

wild  pinions 

The  hosts  of  Havoc  shrieked  their  hate 

57 


And  fled  to  Hell's  dominions, — 

And,  lo!  I  heard,  out  in  the  night,  a  knocking  at  the 

gate: 

And  one  who  cried  aloud  to  me : — 
'  The  night  and  storm  are  gone ! 
Oh,  open  wide  the  door  and  see 
Who  waits  here  in  the  dawn !  — 
Peace,  with  God's  splendor  on 
Back  to  the  sad  world  drawn !  " 


THE  IRON  CROSS 

Y  pass,  with  heavy  eyes  and  hair, 
Before  the  Christ  upon  the  Cross, 
The  Nations,  stricken  with  their  loss, 
And  lifting  faces  of  despair. 

What  is  the  prayer  they  pray  to  Him, 
Christ  Jesus  on  the  Iron  Cross? 
The  Christ,  neglected,  dark  with  moss, 
Whose  hands  are  pierced,  whose  face  is  grim. 

Is  it  forgiveness  for  great  sin 
They  plead  before  the  Iron  Cross? 
Or  for  some  gift  of  gold  or  dross? 
Or  battle  lost,  that  they  would  win? 


58 


With  eyes  where  hate  and  horror  meet, 
They  pass  before  the  Iron  Cross, 
The  Cross,  that  ancient  words  emboss, 
Where  hangs  the  Christ  with  nail-pierced  feet. 

His  hair  is  fallen  on  his  face. 

His  head  hangs  sidewise  from  the  Cross  — 

The  Crucified,  who  knows   all  loss, 

And  had  on  Earth  no  resting  place. 

"  O  world  of  men,"  he  seems  to  say, 
"  Behold  me  on  your  Iron  Cross ! 
To  me  why  kneel  and  tell  your  loss? 
Why  kneel  to  me  and  weep  and  pray? 

"  Have  I  not  taught  you  to  forgive  ? 
And  bade  you  from  my  Iron  Cross 
Believe,  and  bear  your  grief  and  loss, 
That  after  death  you  too  may  live? 

"  You  have  not  followed  at  my  call ! 
You  keep  me  on  this  Iron  Cross, 
And  pray  me  keep  you  from  all  loss, 
And  save  and  comfort  you  withal. — 

"  You  ask  for  love,  and  hate  the  more !  — • 
You  keep  me  on  this  Iron  Cross! — 
Restore  to  me  my  greater  loss, 
The  brotherhood  of  rich  and  poor." 


59 


They  pass,  with  weary  eyes  and  hair, 
Before  the  Christ  upon  the  Cross  — 
The  Nations,  wailing  of  their  loss, 
And  lifting  faces  of  despair. 


THE  WANDERER 

BETWEEN  the  death  of  day  and  birth  of  night, 
By  War's  red  light, 
I  met  with  one  in  trailing  sorrows  clad, 

Whose  features  had 
The  look  of  Him  who  died  to  set  men  right. 

Around  him  many  horrors,  like  great  worms, 

Terrific  forms, 
Crawled,  helmed  like  hippogriff  and  rosmarine, — 

Gaunt  and  obscene, 
Urged  on  to  battle  with  a  thousand  arms. 

Columns  of  steel,  and  iron  belching  flame, 

Before  them  came: 
And  cities  crumbled;  and  amid  them  trod 

Havoc,  their  god, 
With  Desolation  that  no  tongue  may  name. 

And  out  of  Heaven  came  a  burning  breath, 

And  on  it  Death, 
Riding :  before  him,  huge  and  bellowing  herds 

Of  beasts,  like  birds, 

Bat-winged  and  demon,  nothing  conquereth. 

60 


Hag-lights  went  by,  and  Fear  that  shrieks  and  dies; 

And  mouths,  with  cries 
Of  famine ;  and  the  madness  of  Despair ; 

And  everywhere 
Curses,  like  kings,  with  ever-burning  eyes. 

And,  lo !  the  shadow  shook  and  cried  a  name, 

That  grew  a  flame 
Above  the  world,  and  said,  "  Give  heed !  give  heed ! 

See  how  they  bleed ! 
My  wounds!  my  wounds!  —  Was  it  for  this  I  came? 

"  Where  is  the  love  for  which  I  shed  my  blood? 

And  where  the  good 
I  preached  and  died  for?  —  Lo !  ye  have  denied 

And  crucified 
Me  here  again,  who  swore  me  brotherhood !  " 

Then  overhead  the  vault  of  night  was  rent : 

The  firmament 
Winged  thunder  over  of  aerial  craft ; 

And  Battle  laughed 
Titanic  laughter  as  its  way  it  went. 


61 


THE  END  OF  SUMMER 

fTlHE  rose,  that  wrote  its  message  on  the  noon's 

-**    Bright  manuscript,  has  turned  her  perfumed  face 
Towards  Fall,  and  waits,  heart-heavy,  for  the  moon's 
Pale  flower  to  take  her  place. 

With  eyes  distraught,  and  dark  disheveled  hair, 
The  Season  dons  a  tattered  cloak  of  storm 
And  waits  with  Night  that,  darkly,  seems  to  share 
Her  trouble  and  alarm. 

It  is  the  close  of  summer.     In  the  sky 
The  sunset  lit  a  fire  of  drift  and  sat 
Watching  the  last  Day,  robed  in  empire,  die 
Upon  the  burning  ghat. 

The  first  leaf  crimsons  and  the  last  rose  falls, 
And  Night  goes  stalking  on,  her  cloak  of  rain 
Dripping,  and  followed  through  her  haunted  halls 
By  all  Death's  phantom  train. 

The  sorrow  of  the  Earth  and  all  that  dies, 
And  all  that  suffers,  in  her  breast  she  bears ; 
Outside  the  House  of  Life  she  stops  and  cries 
The  burden  of  her  cares. 

Then  on  the  window  knocks  with  crooked  hands, 
Her  tree-like  arms  to  Heaven  wildly -hurled : 
Love  hears  her  crying,  "  Who  then  understands  ?  — 
Has  God  forgot  the  world?  " 
62 


THE  LUST  OF  THE  WORLD 

OINCE  Man  first  lifted  up  his  eyes  to  hers 
^  And  saw  her  vampire  beauty,  which  is  lust, 
All  else  is  dust 
Within  the  compass  of  the  universe. 

With  heart  of  Jael  and  with  face  of  Ruth 
She  sits  upon  the  tomb  of  Time  and  quaffs 
Heart's  blood  and  laughs 
At  all  Life  calls  most  noble  and  the  truth. 

The  fire  of  conquest  and  the  wine  of  dreams 
Are  in  her  veins;  and  in  her  eyes  the  lure 
Of  things  unsure, 
Urging  the  world  forever  to  extremes. 

Without  her,  Life  would  stagnate  in  a  while.- 
Her  touch  it  is  puts  pleasure  even  in  pain. — 
So  Life  attain 
Her  end,  she  cares  not  if  the  means  be  vile. 

She  knows  no  pity,  mercy,  or  remorse. — 

Hers  is  to  build  and  then  exterminate: 

To  slay,  create, 

And  twixt  the  two  maintain  an  equal  course. 


CHANT  BEFORE  BATTLE 

T7I VER  since  man  was  man  a  Fiend  has  stood 
•*— ^  Outside  his  House  of  Good, — 
War,  with  his  terrible  toys,  that  win  men's  hearts 
To  follow  murderous  arts. 

His  spurs,  death-won,  are  but  of  little  use, 
Except  as  old  refuse 
Of  Life ;  to  hang  and  testify  with  rust 
Of  deeds,  long  one  with  dust. 

A  rotting  fungus  on  a  log,  a  tree, 

A  toiling  worm,  or  bee, 

Serves  God's  high  purpose  here  on  Earth  to  build 

More  than  War's  maimed  and  killed. 

The  Hebetude  of  asses,  following  still 

Some  Emperor's  will  to  kill, 

Is  that  of  men  who  give  their  lives  —  for  what?  — 

The  privilege  to  be  shot! 

Grant  men  more  vision,  Lord !  to  read  thy  words, 
That  are  not  guns  and  swords, 
But  trees  and  flowers,  lovely  forms  of  Earth, 
And  all  fair  things  of  worth. 

So  he  may  rise  above  the  brute  and  snake, 
And  of  his  reason  make 
A  world  befitting,  as  thou  hast  designed, 
His  greater  soul  and  mind! 

64 


So  he  may  rid  himself  of  worm  and  beast, 
And  sit  with  Love  at  feast, 
And  make  him  worthy  to  be  named  thy  son, 
As  He,  thy  Holy  One!     Amen. 


NEARING  CHRISTMAS 

THE  season  of  the  rose  and  peace  is  past: 
It  could  not  last. 

There's  heartbreak  in  the  hills  and  stormy  sighs 
Of  sorrow  in  the  rain-lashed  plains  and  skies, 
While  Earth  regards,  aghast, 
The  last  red  leaf  that  flies. 

The  world  is  cringing  in  the  darkness  where 

War  left  his  lair, 

And  everything  takes  on  a  lupine  look, 

Baring  gaunt  teeth  at  every  peaceful  nook, 

And  shaking  torrent  hair 

At  every  little  brook. 

Cancers  of  ulcerous  flame  his  eyes,  and  —  hark! 

There  in  the  dark 

The  ponderous  stir  of  metal,  iron  feet ; 

And  with  it,  heard  around  the  world,  the  beat 

Of  Battle;  sounds  that  mark 

His  heart's  advance,  retreat. 


65 


With  shrapnel  pipes  he  goes  his  monstrous  ways; 

And,  screeching,  plays 

The  hell-born  music  Havoc  dances  to; 

And,  following  with  his  skeleton-headed  crew 

Of  ravening  Nights  and  Days, 

Horror  invades  the  blue. 

jr  ;.;v  :i"*v 

Against  the  Heaven  he  lifts  a  mailed  fist 

And  writes  a  list 

Of  beautiful  cities  on  the  ghastly  sky : 

And  underneath  them,  with  no  reason  why, 

In  blood  and  tears  and  mist, 

The  postscript,  "  These  must  die !  " 

Change  is  the  portion  and  chief  heritage 

Of  every  Age. 

The  spirit  of  God  still  waits  its  time. —  And  War 

May  blur  His  message  for  a  while,  and  mar 

The  writing  on  His  page, 

To  this  our  sorrowful  star. 

But  there  above  the  conflict,  orbed  in  rays, 

Is  drawn  the  face 

Of  Peace ;  at  last  who  comes  into,  her  own ; 

Peace,  from  whose  tomb  the  world  shall  roll  the  stone, 

And  give  her  highest  place 

In  the  human  heart  alone. 


66 


A 


A  BELGIAN  CHRISTMAS 

The  "  happy  year  "  of  1914 

N  hour  from  dawn: 

The  snow  sweeps  on 
As  it  swept  with  sleet  last  night : 
The  Earth  around 
Breathes  never  a  sound, 
Wrapped  in  its  shroud  of  white. 

A  waked  cock  crows 

Under  the  snows; 
Then  silence. —  After  while 

The  sky  grows  blue, 

And  a  star  looks  through 
With  a  kind  o'  bitter  smile. 

A  whining  dog; 

An  axe  on  a  log, 
And  a  muffled  voice  that  calls: 

A  cow's  long  low; 

Then  footsteps  slow 
Stamping  into  the  stalls. 

A  bed  of  straw 

Where  the  wind  blows  raw 
Through  cracks  of  the  stable  door: 

A  child's  small  cry, 

A  voice  nearby, 

That  says,  "  One  mouth  the  more." 
67 


A  different  note 

In  a  man's  rough  throat 
As  he  turns  at  an  entering  tread  — 

Satyrs !  see ! 

"  My  woman  —  she 
Was  brought  last  night  to  bed !  " 

A  cry  of  «  Halt !  "- 

"Ach!  ichbin  kalt!" 
"A  spy  !  "— "  No."— "  That  is  clear! 

There's  a  good  shake-down 

I'  the  jail  in  town  — 
For  her !  " —  And  then,  "  My  orders  here.' 

A  shot,  sharp-rolled 

As  the  clouds  unfold: 
A  scream;  and  a  cry  forlorn  .  .  . 

Clothed  red  with  fire, 

Like  the  Heart's  Desire, 
Look  down  the  Christmas  Morn. 

The  babe  with  light 

Is  haloed  bright, 
And  it  is  Christmas  Day : 

A  cry  of  woe; 

Then  footsteps  slow, 
And  the  wild  guns,  far  away. 


68 


THE  FESTIVAL  OF  THE  AISNE 

IMPERIAL  Madness,  will  of  hand, 
Builds  vast  an  altar  here,  and  rears 
Before  the  world,  on  godly  land, 
A  Moloch  form  of  blood  and  tears. 

And  far  as  eye  can  see,  behold, 
Priests  plunge  into  its  brazen  arms 
Men,  that  its  iron  maw  of  mold 
Mangles,  returning  horrible  forms. 

Its  Priests  are  armies,  moving  slow, 
And  crowned  like  kings,  in  human-guise: 
And  theirs  it  is  to  make  it  flow  — 
The  crimson  stream  of  sacrifice. 


69 


THE  CRY  OF  EARTH 

rjlHE  Season  speaks  this  year  of  life 
•^     Confusing  words  of  strife, 
Suggesting  weeds  instead  of  fruits  and  flowers 
In  all  Earth's  bowers. 

With  heart  of  Jael,  face  of  Ruth, 

She  goes  her  way  uncouth 

Through  hills  and  fields,  where  fog  and  sunset  seem 

Wild  smoke  and  steam. 

Around  her,  spotted  as  a  leopard  skin, 

She  draws  her  cloak  of  whin, 

And  through  the  dark  hills  sweeps  dusk's  last  red  glare 

Wild  on  her  hair. 

Her  hands  drip  leaves,  like  blood,  and  burn 

With  frost;  her  moony  urn 

She  lifts,  where  Death,  'mid  driving  stress  and  storm, 

Rears  his  gaunt  form. 

And  all  night  long  she  seems  to  say 
"  Come  forth,  my  Winds,  and  slay !  — 
And  everywhere  is  heard  the  wailing  cry 
Of  dreams  that  die. 


70 


CHILD  AND  FATHER 

A   LITTLE  child,  one  night,  awoke  and  cried, 
•**•     "  Oh,  help  me,  father  1  there  is  something  wild 
Before  me !  help  me !  "     Hurrying  to  his  side 
I  answered,  "  I  am  here.     You  dreamed,  my  child." 

"A  dream? — "  he  questioned.     "Oh,  I  could  not  see! 
It  was  so  dark !  — .Take  me  into  your  bed !  " — 
And  I,  who  loved  him,  held  him  soothingly, 
And  smiling  on  his  terror,  comforted. 

He  nestled  in  my  arms.     I  held  him  fast ; 
And  spoke  to  him  and  calmed  his  childish  fears, 
Until  he  smiled  again,  asleep  at  last, 
Upon,  his  lashes  still  a  trace  of  tears.  .  .  . 

How  like  a  child  the  world !  who,  in  this  night 
Of  strife,  beholds  strange  monsters  threatening; 
And  with  black  fear,  having  so  little  light, 
Cries  to  its  Father,  God,  for  comforting. 

And  well  for  it,  if,  answering  the  call, 
The  Father  hear  and  soothe  its  dread  asleep !  — 
Howl  many  though,  whom  thoughts  and  dreams  appall, 
Must  lie  awake  and  in  the  darkness  weep. 


71 


THE  RISING  OF  THE  MOON 

HE  Day  brims  high  its  ewer 

Of  blue  with  starry  light, 
And  crowns  as  King  that  hewer 
Of  clouds    (which  take  their  flight 
Across  the  sky)   old  Night. 

And  Tempest  there,  who  houses 
Within  them,  like  a  cave, 
Lies  down  and  dreams  and  drowses 
Upon  the  Earth's  huge  grave, 
With  wandering  wind  and  wave. 

The  storm  moves  on;  and  winging 
From  out  the  east  —  a  bird, 
The  moon  drifts,  calmly  bringing 
A  message  and  a  word 
Of  peace,  in  Heaven  it  heard. 

Of  peace  and  times  called  golden, 
Whose  beauty  makes  it  glow 
With  love,  like  that  of  olden, 
Which  mortals  used  to  know 
There  in  the  long-ago. 


WHERE  THE  BATTLE  PASSED 

ONE  blossoming  rose-tree,  like  a  beautiful  thought 
Nursed  in  a  broken  mind,  that  waits  and  schemes, 
Survives,  though  shattered,  and  about  it  caught, 
The  strangling  dodder  streams. 

Gaunt  weeds :  and  here  a  bayonet  or  pouch, 
Rusty  and  rotting  where  men  fought  and  slew: 
Bald,  trampled  paths  that  seem  with  fear  to  crouch, 
Feeling  a  bloody  dew. 

Here  nothing  that  was  beauty's  once  remains. 
War  left  the  garden  to  its  dead  alone: 
And  Life  and  Love,  who  toiled  here,  for  their  pains 
Have  nothing  once  their  own. 

Death  leans  upon  the  battered  door,  at  gaze  — 
The  house  is  silent  where  there  once  was  stir 
Of  husbandry,  that  led  laborious  days, 
With  Love  for  comforter. 

Now  in  Love's  place,  Death,  old  and  halt  and  blind, 
Gropes,  searching  everywhere  for  what  may  live. — 
War  left  it  empty  as  his  vacant  mind ; 
It  has  no  more  to  give. 


THE  IRON  AGE 

AND   these   are   Christians !  — God !   the  horror  of 
it!- 

How  long,  O  Lord !  how  long,  O  Lord !  how  long 
Wilt  Thou  endure  this  crime?  and  there,  above  it, 
Look  down  on  Earth  nor  sweep  away  the  wrong! 

Are  these  Thy  teachings  ?  —  Where  is  then  that  pity, 
Which  bade  the  weary,  suffering  come  to  Thee?  — 
War  takes  its  toll  of  life  in  field  and  City, 
And  Thou  must  see !  —  O  Christianity ! 

And  then  the  children !  —  Oh,  Thou  art  another ! 
Not  God !  but  Fiend,  whom  God  has  given  release !  — 
Will  prayer  avail  naught?  tears  of  father,  mother? 
To  give  at  last  the  weary  world  surcease 

From  butchery?  that  back  again  hath  brought  her 
Into  that  age  barbarian  that  priced 
Hate  above  Love;  and,  shod  with  steel  and  slaughter, 
Stamped  on  the  Cross  and  on  the  face  of  Christ. 


THE  BATTLE 

BLACK  clouds  hung  low  and  heavy, 
Above  the  sunset  glare ; 
And  in  the  garden  dimly 
We  wandered  here  and  there. 

So  full  of  strife,  of  trouble 
The  night  was  dark,  afraid, 
Like  our  own  love,  so  merely 
For  tears  and  sighings  made. 

That  when  it  came  to  parting, 
And  I  must  mount  and  go, 
With  all  my  soul  I  wished  it  — 
That  God  would  lay  me  low. 


75 


ON  RE-READING  CERTAIN  GERMAN 
POETS 

T 1 1  HEY  hold  their  own,  they  have  no  peers 
•*•     In  gloom  and  glow,  in  hopes  and  fears, 
In  love  and  terror,  hovering  round 
The  lore  of  that  enchanted  ground !  — 
That  mystic  region,  where  one  hears, 
By  bandit  towers,  the  hunt  that  nears 

Wild  through  the  Hartz ;  the  demon  cheers 
Of  Hackelnberg ;  his  horn  and  hound  — 
They  hold  their  own. 

Dark  Wallenstein;  and,  down  the  years, 
The  Lorelei;  and,  creased  with  sneers, 
Faust,  Margaret;  —  the  Sabboth  sound, 
Witch-whirling,  of  the  Brocken,  drowned 
In  storm,  through  which  Mephisto  leers, — 
They  hold   their  own. 


76 


ON  OPENING  AN  OLD  SCHOOL 
VOLUME  OF  HORACE 

I  HAD  forgot  how,  in  my  day 
The  Sabine  fields  around  me  lay 
In  amaranth  and  asphodel, 
With  many  a  cold  Bandusian  well 
Bright-bubbling  by  the  mountain-way. 
In  forest  dells  of  Faun  and  Fay 
How,  lounging  in  the  fountain's  spray, 
I  talked  with  Horace ;  felt  his  spell, 
I  had  forgot. 

With  Pyrrha  and  with  Lydia 
How  oft  I  sat,  while  Lalaga 
Sang,  and  the  fine  Falerian  fell, 
Sparkling,  and  heard  the  poet  tell 

Of  loves  whose  beauty  lasts  for  aye, 
I  had  forgot. 


77 


LAUS  DEO 

ITN   her   vast   church  of  glimmering  blue, 

A    Gray-stoled  from  feet  to  chin, 
Her  dark  locks  beaded  with  the  dew, 

The  nun-like  dawn  comes  in: 
At  once  the  hills   put  on  their  spencers 
Of  purple,  swinging  streaming  censers 
Of  mist  before  the  God  of  Day 
Who  goes  with  pomp  his  way. 

With   sapphire   draperies   of   light 

Is  hung  the  sombre  pines; 
Filling  each  valley,  every  height 

With  sacerdotal  lines  — 

Shrines,  where,  like  priests  with  worship  vestured, 
The   forests   bow  and,  heavenly  gestured, 
Lift  high  the  chalice  of  the  sun, 
Intoning,  "  Night  is  done !  " 


78 


E 


THE  NEW  YORK  SKYSCRAPER 

The  Woolworth  Building 

NORMOUSLY  it  lifts 
Its  tower  against  the  splendor  of  the  west ; 


Like  some  wild  dream  that  drifts 

Before  the  mind,  and  at  the  will's  behest, — 

Enchantment-based,    gigantic    steel   and    stone,- 

Is  given  permanence ; 

A  concrete  fact, 

Complete,  alone, 

Glorious,  immense, 

Such  as  no  nation  here  on  Earth  has  known: 

Epitomizing  all 

That  is  American,  that  stands  for  youth, 

And  strength  and  truth; 

That's  individual, 

And  beautiful  and  free, — 

Resistless  strength  and  tireless  energy. 

Even  as  a  cataract, 

Its  superb  fact 

Suggests  vast  forces  Nature  builds  with  —  Joy, 

And  Power  and  Thought, 

She  to  her  aid  has  brought 

For  eons  past,  will  bring  for  eons  yet  to  be, 

Shaping  the  world  to  her  desire:  the  three 

Her  counsellors  constantly, 


79 


Her  architects,  through  whom  her  dreams  come  true, — 

Her  workmen,  bringing  forth, 

With  toil  that  shall  not  cease, 

Mountains  and  plains  and  seas, 

That  make  the  Earth 

The  glory  that  it  is: 

And,  one  with  these, 

Such  works  of  man  as  this, 

This  building,  towering  into  the  blue, 

A  beacon,  round  which  like  an  ocean  wide, 

Circles  and  flows  the  restless  human  tide. 


ROBERT  BROWNING 

MASTER  of  human  harmonies,  where  gong 
And  harp  and  violin  and  flute  accord; 
Each  instrument  confessing  you  its  lord, 
Within  the  deathless  orchestra  of  Song. 
Albeit  at  times  your  music  may  sound  wrong 
To  our  dulled  senses,  and  its  meaning  barred 
To  Earth's  slow  understanding,  never  marred 
Your  message  brave:  clear,  and  of  trumpet  tongue. 
Poet-re vealer,  who,  both  soon  and  late, 
Within  an  age  of  doubt  kept  clean  your  faith, 
Crying  your  cry  of  "  With  the  world  all's  well !  " 
How  shall  we  greet  you  from  our  low  estate, 
Keys  in  the  keyboard  that  is  life  and  death, 
The  organ  whence  we  hear  your  music  swell? 

80 


R 


EILEY 

His  Birthday,  October  the  7th,  191% 

ILEY,  whose  pen  has  made  the  world  your  debtor, 
Whose  Art  has   kept  you  young  through  sixty 

years, 

Brimming  our  hearts  with  laughter  and  with  tears, 
Holding  her  faith  pure  to  the  very  letter: 
We  come  to  you  today,  both  man  and  woman, 
And  happy  little  children,  girl  and  boy, — 
To  laurel  you  with  all  our  love  and  joy, 
And  crown  you  for  the  dreams  your  pen  made  human: 
For  Orphant  Annie  and  for  Old  Aunt  Mary, 
The  Raggedty  Man,  who  never  will  grow  older, 
And  all  the  kindly  folks   from  Griggsby's   Station, 
Immortal  throngs,  with  Spirk  and  Wunk  and  Faery, 
Who  swarm  behind  you,  peering  o'er  your  shoulder, 
Sharing  with  you  the  blessings  of  a  Nation. 


81 


DON  QUIXOTE 

On  receiving  a  bottle  of  Sherry  Wine  of  the 
same  name 

WHAT  "  blushing  Hippocrene  "  is  here !  what  fire 
Of     the    "  warm    South "    with    magic    of    old 

Spain !  — 

Through  which  again  I  seem  to  view  the  train 
Of  all   Cervantes'  dreams,  his  heart's  desire: 
The  melancholy  Knight,  in  gaunt  attire 
Of  steel  rides  by  upon  the  windmill-plain 
With  Sancho  Panza  by  his  side  again, 
While,  heard  afar,  a  swineherd  from  a  byre 
Winds  a  hoarse  horn. 

And  all  at  once  I  see 
The  glory  of  that  soul  who  rode  upon 
Impossible    quests, —  following   a    deathless    dream 
Of  righted  wrongs,  that  never  were  to  be, — 
Like  many  another  champion  who  has  gone 
Questing  a  cause  that  perished  like  a  dream. 


THE  WOMAN 

"YTTITH  her  fair  face  she  made  my  heaven, 

*  *     Beneath  whose  stars  and  moon  and  sun 
I  worshiped,  praying,  having  striven, 
For  wealth  through  which  she  might  be  won. 

And  yet  she  had  no   soul:     A  woman 
As  fair  and  cruel  as  a  god; 
Who  played  with  hearts  as  nothing  human, 
And  tossed  them  by  and  on  them  trod. 

She  killed  a  soul;  she  did  it  nightly; 
Luring  it  forth  from  peace  and  prayer, 
To  strangle  it,  and  laughing  lightly, 
Cast  it  into   the  gutter  there. 

And  yet,  not  for  a  purer  vision 
Would   I   exchange;    or   Paradise 
Possess  instead  of  Hell,  my  prison, 
Where  burns  the  passion  of  her  eyes. 


THE  SONG  OF  SONGS 


Read  November  ll±ih,  1913,  before  the  Ameri 

can  Academy  and  National  Institute 

of  Arts  and  Letters  in  joint 

session  at  Chicago,  III. 

I    HEARD  a  Spirit  singing  as,  beyond  the  morning 
winging, 

Its  radiant  form  went  swinging  like  a  star: 
In  its  song  prophetic  voices  mixed  their  sounds  with 

trumpet-noises, 

As  when,  loud,  the  World  rejoices  after  war. 
And  it  said: 


Hear  me ! 

Above  the  roar  of  cities, 

The  clamor  and  conflict  of  trade, 

The  frenzy  and  fury  of  commercialism, 

Is  heard  my  voice,  chanting,  intoning. — 

Down  the  long  corridors  of  time  it  comes, 

Bearing  my  message,  bidding  the  soul  of  man  arise 

To  the  realization  of  his  dream. 

Now  and  then  discords  seem  to  intrude, 

And  tones  that  are  false  and  feeble  — 

Beginnings  of  the  perfect  chord 

From  which  is  evolved  the  ideal,  the  unattainable. 

Hear  me ! 

84 


Ever  and  ever, 

Above  the  tumult  of  the  years, 

The   blatant   cacophonies   of  war, 

The  wrangling  of  politics, 

Demons  and  spirits  of  unrest, 

My  song  persists, 

Addressing  the  soul 

With  the  urge  of  an  astral  something, 

Supernal, 

Elemental, 

Promethean, 

Instinct  with  an  everlasting  fire. 


Hear  me ! 

I  am  the  expression  of  the  subconscious, 
The  utterance  of  the  intellect, 
The  voice  of  mind, 
That  stands  for  civilization. 
Out  of  my   singing  sprang,  Minerva-like, 
Full-armed  and  fearless, 
Liberty, 

Subduer  of  tyrants,  who  feed  on  the  strength  of  Na 
tions. 

Out  of  my  chanting  arose, 

As  Aphrodite  arose  from  the  foam  of  the  ocean, 
The  Dream  of  Spiritual  Desire, 
Mother  of  Knowledge, 
Victor  o'er  Hate  and  Oppression, — 
Ancient  and  elemental  daemons,  / 

83 


Who,  with  Ignorance  and  Evil,  their  consorts, 
Have  ruled  for  eons  of  years. 

m 

Hear  me ! 

Should  my  chanting  cease, 

My  music  utterly  fail  you, 

Behold! 

Out  of  the  hoary  Past,  most  swiftly,  surely, 

Would  gather  the  Evils  of  Earth, 

The  Hydras  and  Harpies,  forgotten, 

And  buried  in  darkness : 

Amorphous  of  form, 

Tyrannies  and  Superstitions 

Torturing  body  and  soul: 

And  with  them, 

Gargoyls  of  dreams  that  groaned  in  the  Middle  Ages  — 

Aspects  of  darkness  and  death  and  hollow  eidolons, 

Cruel,  inhuman, 

Wearing  the  faces  and  forms  of  all  the  wrongs  of  the 
world. 

Barbarian  hordes  whose  shapes  make  hideous 

The  cycles  of  error  and  crime: 

Grendels  of  darkness, 

Devouring  the  manhood  of  Nations: 

Demogorgons  of  War  and  Misrule, 

Blackening  the  world  with  blood  and  the  lust  of  de 
struction. 

Hear  me !  — 

Out  of  my  song  have  grown 

86 


Beauty  and  joy, 

And  with  them 

The    triumph   of    Reason; 

The  confirmation  of  Hope, 

Of  Faith  and  Endeavor : 

The  Dream  that's  immortal, 

To   whose   creation   Thought    gives    concrete    form, 

And  of  which  Vision  makes  permanent  substance. 

IV 

Fragmentary, 
Out  of  the  Past, 

Down  the  long  aisles  of  the  Centuries, 
Uncertain,  at  first  and  uneasy, 
Hesitant,  harsh  of  expression, 
My  song  was  heard, 
Stammering,   appealing, 
A  murmur  merely : 
Coherent  then, 
Singing  into  form, 
Assertive, 
Ecstatic, 

Louder,  lovelier,  and  more  insistent, 
Sonorous,  proclaiming; 
Clearer  and  surer  and  stronger, 
Attaining  expression,  evermore  truer  and  clearer: 
Masterful,  mighty  at  last, 
Committed  to  conquest, 
And  with  Beauty  coeval; 
Part  of  the  wonder  of  life, 

87 


The  triumph  of  light  over  darkness : 

Taking  the  form  of  Art  — 

Art,  that  is  voice  and  vision  of  the  soul  of  man. — 

Hear  me ! 

Confident  ever, 

One  with  the  Loveliness  song  shall  evolve, 

My  voice  is  become  as  an  army  of  banners, 

Marching  irresistibly  forward, 

With  the  roll  of  the  drums  of  attainment, 

The  blare  of  the  bugles  of  fame: 

Tramping,  tramping,  evermore  advancing, 

Till  the  last  redoubt  of  prejudice  is  down, 

And  the  Eagles  and  Fasces  of  Learning 

Make  glorious  the  van  o'  the  world. 


They  who  are  deaf  to  my  singing, 

Who  disregard  me, — 

Let  them  beware  lest  the  splendor  escape  them, 

The  glory  of  light  that  is  back  o'  the  darkness  of  life, 

And  with  it  — 

The  blindness  of  spirit  o'erwhelm  them. — 

They   who   reject   me, 

Reject  the  gleam 

That  goes  to  the  making  of  Beauty ; 

And  put  away 

The  loftier  impulses  of  heart  and  of  mind. 

They  shall  not  possess  the  dream,  the  ideal, 

Of  ultimate  worlds, 

88 


That  is  part  of  the  soul  that  aspires ; 

That  sits  with  the  Spirit  of  Thought, 

The  radiant  presence  who  weaves, 

Directed  of  Destiny, 

There  in  the  Universe, 

At  its  infinite  pattern  of  stars. 

They  shall  not  know, 

Not  they, 

The  exaltations  that  make  endurable  here  on  the  Earth 

The  ponderable  curtain  of  flesh. 

Not  they !     Not  they  ! 


VI 

Hear  me! 

I  control,  and  direct; 

I  wound  and  heal, 

Elevate  and  subdue 

The  vaulting  energies  of  Man. 

I  am  part  of  the  cosmic  strain  o'  the  Universe: 

I  captain  the  thoughts  that  grow  to  deeds, 

Material  and  spiritual  facts, 

Pointing  the  world  to  greater  and  nobler  things. — 

Hear  me ! 

My   daedal   expression   peoples    the   Past   and   Present 

With  forms  of  ethereal  thought 

That  symbolize  Beauty: 

The  Beauty  expressing  itself  now, 

As  Poetry, 

As  Philosophy: 

89 


As  Truth  and  Religion  now, 

And  now, 

As  science  and  Law, 

Vaunt  couriers  of  Civilization. 


OGLETHORPE 

An  Ode  to  be  read  on  the  laying  of  tlie  foundation 

stone  of  the  new  Oglethorpe  University, 

January,  1915,  at  Atlanta, 

Georgia 


A   S  when  with  oldtime  passion  for  this  Land 
•£*•  Here  once  she  stood,  and  in  her  pride,  sent  forth 
Workmen  on  every  hand, 

Sowing  the  seed  of  knowledge  South  and  North, 
More  gracious  now  than  ever,  let  her  rise, 
The  splendor  of  a  new  dawn  in  her  eyes; 
Grave,  youngest  sister  of  that  company, 

That  smiling  wear 

Laurel  and  pine 
And  wild  magnolias  in  their  flowing  hair; 

The  sisters  Academe, 

With  thoughts  divine, 
Standing  with  eyes  a-dream, 
Gazing  beyond  the  world,  into  the  sea, 
Where  lie  the  Islands  of  Infinity. 

90 


II 

Now  in  these  stormy  days  of  stress  and  strain, 

When  Gospel  seems  in  vain, 
And  Christianity  a  dream  we've  lost, 

That  once  we  made  our  boast; 
Now  when  all  life  is  brought 
Face  to  grim  face  with  naught, 
And  a  condition   speaking,  trumpet-lipped, 
Of  works  material,  leaving  Beauty  out 
Of  God's  economy ;  while,  horror-dipped, 
Lies  our  buried  faith,  full  near  to  perish, 

'Mid  the  high  things  we  cherish, 
In  these  tempestuous  days  when,  to  and  fro 
The  serpent,  Evil,  goes  and  strews  his  way 

With  dragon's  teeth  that  play 
Their  part  as  once  they  did  in  Jason's  day; 

And  War,  with  menace  loud, 

And  footsteps,  metal-slow, 

And  eyes  a  crimson  hot, 
Is  seen,  against  the  Heaven  a  burning  blot 

Of  blood  and  tears  and  woe: 
Now  when  no  mortal  living  seems  to  know 
Whither  to  turn  for  hope,  we  turn  to  thee, 
And  such  as  thou  art,  asking  "  What's  to  be?  " 

And  that  thou  point  the  path 

Above  Earth's  hate  and  wrath, 
And  Madness,  stalking  with  his  torch  aglow 
Amid  the  ruins  of  the  Nations  slow 
Crumbling  to  ashes  with  Old  Empire  there 

In  Europe's  tiger  lair. 
91 


m 

A  temple  may'st  thou  be, 
A  temple  by  the  everlasting  sea, 
For  the  high  goddess,  Ideality, 

Set  like  a  star, 
Above  the  peaks  of  dark  reality : 

Shining  afar 

Above  the  deeds   of  War, 
Within  the  shrine  of  Love,  whose  face  men  mar 

With  Militarism, 

That  is  the  prism 

Through  which  they  gaze  with  eyes  obscured  of  Greed, 
At  the  white  light  of  God's  Eternity, 
The  comfort  of  the  world,  the  soul's  great  need, 

That  beacons  Earth  indeed, 
Breaking  its  light  intense 
With  turmoil  and  suspense 
And  failing  human  Sense. 


IV 

From  thee  a  higher  Creed 

Shall  be  evolved. 

The  broken  lights  resolved 
Into  one  light  again,  of  glorious  light, 
Between  us  and  the  Everlasting,  that  is  God. 
The  all-confusing  fragments,  that  are  night, 

Lift  up  thy  rod 

Of  knowledge  and  from  Truth's  eyeballs  strip 
The  darkness,  and  in  armor  of  the  Right, 

92 


Bear  high  the  standard  of  imperishable  light! 
Cry  out,  "  Awake !  —  I  slept  awhile !  —  Awake  I 

Again  I  take 

My  burden  up  of  Truth  for  Jesus'  sake, 
And  stand  for  what  he  stood  for,  Peace  and  Thought, 
And  all  that's  Beauty-wrought 

Through  doubt  and  dread  and  ache, 
By  which  the  world  to  good  at  last  is  brought !  " 


No  more  with  silence  burdened,  when  the  Land 

Was  stricken  by  the  hand 
Of  war,  she  rises,  and  assumes  her  stand 
For  the  Enduring;  setting  firm  her  feet 

On  what  is  blind  and  brute: 

Still  holding  fast 

With  honor  to  the  past, 
Speaking  a  trumpet  word, 
Which  shall  be  heard 
As  an  authority,  no  longer  mute. 

VI 

Again,  yea,  she  shall  stand 

For  what  Truth  means  to  Man 
For  science  and  for  Art  and  all  that  can 
Make  life  superior  to  the  things  that  weight 

The  soul  down,  things  of  hate 
Instead  of  love,  for  which  the  world  was  planned; 

May  she  demand 

93 


Faith  and  inspire  it;  Song  to  lead  her  way 
Above  the  crags  of  Wrong 
Into  the  broader  day ; 
And  may  she  stand 

For  poets  still;  poets  that  now  the  Land 

Needs  as  it  never  needed;  such  an  one 
As   he,   large  Nature's   Son 
Lanier,   who   with   firm   hand 
Held  up  her  magic  wand 

Directing  deep  in  music  such  as  none 
Has  ever  heard 
Such  music  as  a  bird 

Gives  of  its  soul,  when  dying, 

And  unconscious  if  it's  heard. 


VII 

So  let  her  rise,  mother  of  greatness  still, 

Above  all  temporal  ill; 
Invested  with  all  old  nobility, 
Teaching  the  South  decision,  self  control 

And  strength  of  mind  and  soul; 
Achieving  ends  that  shall  embrace  the  whole 

Through  deeds  of  heart  and  mind ; 

And  thereby  bind 

Its  effort  to  an  end 

And  reach  its  goal. 


vni 

So  shall  she  win 

A  wrestler  with  sin, 
Supremely  to  a  place  above  the  years, 

And  help  men  rise 

To  what  is  wise 
And  true  beyond  their  mortal  finite  scan  — 

The  purblind  gaze  of  man; 
Aiding  with  introspective  eyes 

His  soul  to  see  a  higher  plan 
Of  life  beyond  this  life;  above  the  gyves 
Of  circumstance  that  bind  him  in  his  place 

Of  doubt  and  keep  away  his  face 

From  what  alone  survives; 

And  what  assures 
Immortal  life  to  that  within,  that  gives 

Of  its  own  self, 
And  through  its  giving,  lives, 

And  evermore  endures. 


95 


POETS  EPITAPH 

T~    IFE  was  unkind  to  him; 
-^-^        All  things  went  wrong: 
Fortune  assigned  to  him 
Merely  a  song. 

Ever  a  mystery 

Here  to  his  heart ; 
In  his  life's  history 

Love  played  no  part. 

Carve  on  the  granite, 

There  at  the  end, 
Where  all  may  scan  it, 

Death  was  his  friend. 

Giving  him  all  he  missed 
Here  upon  Earth  — 

Love  and  the  call  he  missed 
All  that  was  worth. 


96 


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